


Intensity

by filenotch



Series: Lars and Brian [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Character Death, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 144,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2005, and in a small punk performance space in a southern college town, Lars Dahl has spotted the new undercover cop. To keep the cop from finding anything, Lars takes him into an intense sexual dominance game, but the cop isn't looking for anything typical. He's after a dangerous drug called Intensity. And Lars? Well, Lars will try anything once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which we meet the players

**Author's Note:**

> This was written around 2005, its first iteration in the late 1990s as two porn shorts. It grew, with plot and more depth of character, and Lars and Brian became so real to me. It was submitted once for publication, and the editor found it too disturbing. I was never known for writing nice people, and this is not a nice story, but it's a hell of a happy ending.

"Hey, Lars, you know everybody, right?"

"Yeah, Blue," I said, as I put an X on the back of her hand. "I've spent enough time working the damn door, and it's not like there's any other place for you freaks to hang out." 

Blue looked at me and pointed with her Mohawk down the line of people waiting to get in. "Who's that guy?"

It didn't take much to figure out who she meant. He was better than most of the cops who tried to come in undercover. He had high boots over jeans, a ragged black trench coat, and a buzz cut bleached blond. They usually wore some brand new shirt from an inappropriate metal band and had their girlfriends put some makeup on them, but he hadn't gone that route. 

"Cop," I told Blue. "Spread the word."

When he got to the door, I took his money and stamped his hand, but he didn't meet my glance. He came up to my chin and was broad, which was part of the giveaway: a little too old and a little too buff. He took his change and I noticed he was wearing silver rings on every other finger, the remnants of black nail polish and a well-worn spiked wristband. When he walked past me into the club, the shoulders and walk said cop, but the attention to detail said queer. That was interesting.  

When he was out of sight, I passed the signal to the band on stage. Being six-four—six-eight with the hair—has its advantages. The bass player from Pocahontas Pontiac looked my way, and I gave her the big C. It was Thursday night, local bands, so it was easy to spread the word. She passed it to the singer, who worked in a siren sound into the next vocal line. Between her and Blue, everyone would know there was a cop in the house. He wouldn't find anything. I called Ricky to cover the door and went after the cop, so they'd all see who it was.  

 I walked up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder, and he turned with a start and squinted up at my eyebrow rings. "New in town?" I shouted over the band.  

 "Uh, yeah." He had a professional cop mask, edged with trying to look open and newcomer nervous. Maybe this wasn't his usual kind of undercover situation, and that made all the time he'd spent on details even more interesting. "You book the bands?" he asked.  

"No, I just work the door. They suck," I nodded toward the stage, "but Ricky's trying to hook up with the drummer. He thinks any chick who would put tail fins on a kick drum must be fun in bed." I shrugged. "No chance, though. She's a dyke."  

He just nodded.  

It looked like I was right. When most straight guys learn that a hot girl is a dyke, they want to watch her do another girl, or fuck her to show her what a real man can do. This guy just nods. Me? I fuck the pretty, whatever the plumbing, and he was pretty. It gave me ideas.  

I noticed he was staring up at my face, so I ran my fingers across my eyebrow, flipping the two rings back and forth, then bent down and said "Yeah, it hurt," to the bone behind his ear. The sound conducts better, and you don't have to hurt someone by shouting in their ear. It's sexier, too, since they feel what you're saying as much as hear it.  I added, "I liked it."

He looked at me, face carefully blank, as I straightened up and cocked my head back to the door, mouthing, "Back to work." With a slight bow I left him, threaded my way to the beer stash at the soundboard, and then relieved Ricky at the door, stepping outside for a moment to cooler air. Fall in this part of North Carolina meant drier air and an influx of freshmen, some of whom were standing out on the sidewalk. They hid their beers when they saw me, which was a good sign. If they were worried about me, then they'd pay more attention to the cops.  

About an hour later, I had to piss, so we switched again and I made my way to the bathrooms, which I had labeled _us_ and _them_ when we opened the club. On the couch in the chill space sat a couple of known juvenile offenders with skinhead buzz cuts, holding beers despite the big underage Xs on their hands. I took the beers, and when they didn't seem to notice, I put my hand on the one closest and turned his face up. "Be cool, man. Cop in the house," I started to say, but I was looking at nothing but pupil. He was tripping on something, and no way could I get them out of here without the cop noticing.

"You a cop?" he asked.  

"No, dude, I'm Lars. You know me."  

"Lars," he said, studying my face. "You don't look Swedish?" 

"Yeah, well, without Miss Clairol's Ultra-black you could put me in ABBA." I glanced around, looking for Trey, the kid who sometimes helped load out and did odd jobs for Ricky. He ran with this particular pack, but when I caught sight of him and he saw me looking, he turned and left. Shit. I glanced around and found the familiar tinted Mohawk nearby. This was going to cost me, but I walked up behind her where she stood at the edges of the crowd. "Hey, Blue!" I said behind her ear. "Can you baby-sit?"  

"What?" She followed me back to the couch and looked down.  

"These skinheads are tripping their balls off. Play ground crew as long as that cop is here."  

She rubbed the stubble on their heads like she was petting a pair of dogs. They had thousand-mile stares, and didn't seem to notice. "What'll you give me?"

Mercenary bitch. There was a reason I liked her. "No cover next week for Doll Howitzer."

"You're on."

That was easier than expected, but I went with it. I went in through the door marked _them_ and paid rent on the beer. My eyes wandered over the bathroom for obvious signs of drugs, and I was relieved that things looked clean. I checked out us before heading back to the door. I passed the cop on my way, and he followed me. Ricky handed the cash back to me and I took the stool by the door. It was last set, and things weren't busy. The cop wanted to talk, which was fine with me. I'd know where he was that way. 

"Nice club."  

I looked at the concrete floors. Nice? The industrial look wasn't planned; it was genuine. "Used to be a small factory, so we get it cheap."  

"Plan 9? The name?"

"Worst science fiction movie ever made."

He nodded and asked, "So what's with the beer, with people bringing it in?"

Typical cop question. He should know the answer to this. "We're licensed as a performance space. We can't sell, but we make a big deal of asking for ID to keep the cops off our backs." I shrugged. "We'd make more money if we could sell, but then they'd never let us stay open."

He nodded again, like that explained everything, then said, "How'd you know I was wondering about your eyebrow rings?"  

Sitting on the stool I was a shade shorter than he was, and I got a better look at his face. His eyes were light colored, probably blue, but it was hard to tell in this light. Strong jaw, and more cheekbone that was strictly necessary. Yes, he was pretty. I flicked the rings on my face again and answered, "Everyone wonders, unless they've got one." I flexed my tongue against my lower teeth, showing him the stud of my barbell. "That hurt, too."  

There was a shiver of reaction in him, something he didn't want to show. I was pretty sure it turned him on. He asked, "Any others?"  

I grinned. Those ideas I had earlier had had plenty of time to turn into an actual plan. I couldn't believe he was handing me such an opening. "Not where I'll show you here. Come over to my place and I'll let you find them all."  

His eyes widened for a second. "Why would I want to do that?"  

I reached for my wallet and pulled out one of my cards with my name, address, and phone. I used a marking pen to write on the back, Wear your uniform. I handed it to him and said, "I'm usually home by three."

He took it, and then flipped it over to see what I had written.  "I don't think so," he said, but he pocketed the card.

"What don't you think? That you're queer, or that you're a cop?" He rolled his eyes at me, so I pushed it. "Or that you want to know how my barbell would feel on your dick?"

He stepped back, face going for revulsion, and missing by a mile. "Jesus, you're fucked up."

"You're better than most," I said, "but I can spot 'em." It had been a while since I'd had a guy, and never a cop. I pushed. "I'm not going to out you. I just want to do you."

"Lot of assumptions there." He swallowed. He didn't want to be interested, but he was.

"Maybe I'm just trying to find out why you're here."

"Maybe I'm just here for the music."

I laughed in his face. "Holy shit. How deep does that denial go?"

"Whatever," he said, and turned to go. 

I shrugged. "Tomorrow's good, too. Offer stands."

He turned back to me, took a breath and a step forward. "I'll be here tomorrow."

"Suit yourself, officer."

He shook his head. "I'm never going to find anything here, am I?"  

"Depends on what you're looking for." I leaned to speak behind his ear in a low growl, "You found me." 

And he wanted me, whether he'd admit it or not.


	2. In which they begin to play

The next afternoon, I was sitting at the sound board with the volume cranked up high, waiting for the bands to show up, wondering whether the cop would come back that night. Trey was lying on the stage waiting, his legs dangling over the side. Ricky walked out of the office making a cut motion across his throat. I leaned up to turn down the music so that we could hear each other. "What's up?" I walked down out of the sound booth.

"Turner just called." Ricky was my height and build, but my opposite in every other way. He wore his blond hair in a ponytail, and he had a wardrobe entirely of button down shirts and khaki slacks, which for the last four years had all looked about four years old. I had no idea how he did that, but it helped give him the air of some prodigal son from a staunch New England family, slumming it down south. The look of contained annoyance on his face just then only added to the impression.

"Turner?" Trey asked, sitting up suddenly.

Ricky glanced over at him. "Shad Turner is the major agent for punk bands in the south."

"Right. I knew that," said Trey. "So what did he call about?"

"Switched bands on us for tomorrow night. Again."

I hated when that happened. Since I worked the door, I caught all the complaints. "Joy."

Ricky shrugged. "It is what it is. Bands he sends don't generally suck."

"We'll see," I said, and later, after we were open, I started hearing about it. Blue was typical. "Who the hell is that?" She asked when she saw the sign by the door announcing the new Saturday lineup. "The Outvaders? That's lame."

"We lowered the cover to eight bucks."

"No way," she said. "I'll stay outside."

"Yes, but that's tomorrow. Pay up."

"I wasn't going to come in tonight anyway. I was just coming up to say hi."

"Fine. Hi. Just don't leave your beer bottles on the sidewalk. There's a trashcan, you know." She shot me a bird, and I reached out to rub the stubble on the side of her head. For some reason, no one ever used the trashcan, even though they were generally pretty cool about not attracting the cops' attention. I could live with cleaning up after them every night if it meant not getting hassled by police on a more regular basis.

The undercover cop showed up later in a different outfit, not wearing the rings, and paid the cover, not meeting my eyes. Well damn. After he vanished inside, I called Blue over. "Cop," I said, taking her hand in mine and drawing an X on it. "Go spread the word." 

"Oh, good. I needed to pee," she said. 

"Spread the word," I reminded her, and looked up and down the sidewalk, where a few dozen kids in black clothes sat leaning against the building. I stepped out of the noise of the band, and heard something, raised voices. I looked to the parking lot beside the building and saw two skinheads, starting to get into it with someone I couldn't see. Before I could move, the kid ran, chased by the skins, and by the time I got there, the kid they were after was in one of the big live oak trees at the back of the lot, moving up fast and hardly visible through the Spanish moss.

"What do we have here?" I asked, "A couple of hounds treeing a squirrel?" The skinheads turned, snarling, and then they realized it was me. It was the two from the chill space last night, and this time they were edgy and focused, and fuck, but one of them had a knife out. "Let's just put that pigsticker away."

The skinhead swallowed, looked back at the tree, and then at me again, before putting the knife away. I put my arms around their shoulders to steer them back to the street. "Gentleman, is that really a good use of your time? He's hardly big enough to be a challenge, and he's already scared of you. What do you have to prove here?" They shrugged under my arms, and I looked down at them. They both were sporting big hickeys, and bite marks that disappeared under their T-shirts, which was odd, given how out of it they'd been last night, but I didn't comment. Instead I said, "It doesn't make you look like much when you only pick on the small ones. You're better than that." Sometimes that Principles of Diplomacy class during my Master's work came in handy. "Now, you just almost fucked up to the point where the cops might have had to get involved. You want us to stay open, don't you?" They both nodded. "Good," I said. "Now go home, and don't bring that knife back here." 

To my vague surprise, they walked away, but they kept glancing at the tree. I waited until they got into a car and drove away, wondering what the hell warranted pulling a knife. I left the kid in the tree and went back to my stool. A little while later, Trey came to the door and said, "Thanks, man."

"For what?" I asked, checking his eyes. He looked relatively straight.

"For calling off the dogs."

"That was you?" I asked, surprised. "I thought those guys were friends of yours."

Trey shrugged, but didn't look at me. "You know how it is."

"What did you do?" I asked. Skinheads, even stupid suburban skins that ran in packs like dogs, didn't usually turn on each other without a reason.

"They're faggots." Trey grinned. "Did you see those hickeys? They didn't get 'em from girls. They gave 'em to each other. They don't, you know, want me to tell anybody. Pussies."

That was surprising, because I would have thought those two were straight. Plus, they were so out of it last night, I couldn't imagine sex was top on their agenda. Whatever. I wasn't going to listen to that kind of crap from Trey. I said. "No gay trash talk here."

"What? You're no faggot. Women crawl all over you."

I stood up and looked down at him. "I've been known to let men crawl all over me, too." He looked like he wanted to say something, but stopped himself. I said, "I like pussy and dick. You have a problem with that?"

Trey swallowed down whatever he might have been thinking. "No, man. I mean, you're you."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. Just that it's cool, y'know. I didn't mean nothin'. Just, let me in, okay?"

I let it slide. He was young. "Pay up." 

"But I helped load in!"

"Consider it a fee for getting rid of your friends." 

He paid, and I let him in, but something about it didn't sit right.

The rest of the night was quiet. I followed the cop with my eyes when I could see him from the door. He didn't try to talk to me, other than to ask, "Three?" as he left. I nodded, trying not to look surprised. Seemed I was going to have a visitor. I hadn't expected it. I mean, why would a cop give me blackmail material?

Trey hung out after the show and helped the band load out. I shoveled up the beer bottles faster than usual, and Ricky grinned at me as we hoisted the trashcan up to the dumpster. "Hot date?"

I waited until the noise of the falling bottles died down. "Could be. He looks hot." 

Ricky raised his eyebrows as I swung the trash can to the ground. "He, huh? Been a while." 

"You know what they say about being bisexual," I said as we walked back into the club.

"Yeah, doubles your chances of a date on Saturday night."

"And seeing as it's Saturday and I have a date—" I said.

Ricky looked at his watch. "It's Saturday morning, but who's counting? See you tomorrow. Today. Whatever."

I made it home about twenty minutes to three, and I showered the smoke out of my hair, shaved, and tried to decide what to wear. I settled on ancient jeans with enough rips in the leg to show my thigh tattoo, black muscle shirt, and china flats. Back in the bathroom I squeezed a handful of gel to re-spike my hair, and grabbed an eye pencil to smudge around my lids. I poured a shot of Jack Daniels and made a quick check through the bedroom. Condoms, lube, and I left the bottle of Jack by the bed. All set.  

I set up the CD player with some ambient and trance, and sat down and sipped the whiskey, wondering how to play this for more than a trick. Play, I thought. That was what I wanted. Could I get this guy into a dominance game? I glanced at the magazine stack, with last month's unread issue of The Economist on top, and decided to shove them under the table out of sight. It wasn't the impression I wanted to give him. I neatened the pile of library books, which were mostly mysteries.

At 3:05 he knocked. I checked out the window to see what he'd driven and saw a nondescript car parked across the street. When I opened the door I got the most excellent surprise. He was a motorcycle cop. He even had his helmet with him.  

This was fantasy territory. I wasn't sure how to push him where I wanted him, and no idea if he'd get it at all.  "Come to make an arrest, officer?" I barely cracked a smile.  

He crossed his arms, and I noticed the nail polish was gone. "No, sir, just come to search the premises for unusual embedded metal." He sounded nervous.

"Got a warrant, officer?"  

He looked confused for a moment, and a bit more nervous. "I, uh, thought I had an invitation." 

What a boy scout, I thought, and shook my head just barely, thinking, C'mon, get with the game! "I never let cops in my house without a warrant." I looked down at him and cocked my head.  

Something must have sunk in. He almost kept a straight face as his hand shot up to my jaw and he pushed me into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. "I don't think I need a warrant, freak."  

I let myself hope, and he didn't disappoint when he backed me into my battered Victorian loveseat and shoved me down, making him taller than me. I looked up through my eyeliner with something I hoped showed invitation and defiance, both. This was a straightforward negotiation. I want this, I tried to say, but I'm not going to make it easy for you.  

He tossed his helmet to a chair, but it rolled off and klunked heavily on the floor. I flinched at the sound. His hand reached down to cup my chin. He ran his thumb over my lips and I parted them, inviting it in. He rubbed the tip of his thumb over my teeth, and I reached to bite him gently. I locked gazes with him, and his eyes were clear blue. When I started to suck on his thumb, running the ball of my barbell around and down, his pupils dilated and his fair skin flushed. I knew he was thinking about how this would feel on other parts of his body.  

Maybe he sensed my feeling of gotcha, because he pulled his hand away from my mouth. 

"Don't try to distract me," he growled, breathing hard.  

I checked the bulge in his uniform. He was distracted all right.  

A few seconds restored him to some measure of control, and control was what I wanted him to have. He was slow to pick it up, maybe a little new to this kind of game. He sat on the chair next to the love seat and pointed at the floor in front of him. I knelt down, wondering where he was going, and why he looked faintly surprised when I did what he asked. On my knees I was still taller than him, so I sat back on my haunches so I'd have to look up. 

His face was unreadable, and for a moment, I wondered if this was a really stupid idea. I was pushing a scene with an unknown man who was carrying a gun. I only knew his name from a uniform nametag, and it might not even be his. Hoechst, B.  

What the hell, I thought. Nothing to lose. Part of me couldn't believe he was going through with it.

He reached out and flipped my eyebrow rings, then ran his fingers down the fifteen rings in my right ear. "What other bits of embedded metal do you have?" he asked.  

"Well, officer, that might require a strip search."  

"So strip."  

I didn't move, wondering what he would do.

"Did you hear me?"  

"A few earrings don't constitute probable cause, sir."  

He grabbed my ear. "Oh, I think they do. Strip."  

"Or?" 

He backhanded me with his fingers, the nails stinging my cheek. I took it, and he looked at me and shook his head, his face so blank I knew he had to be fighting to keep it that way.  

I stood up, eyes still showing challenge, I hoped. I kicked off my china flats, and pulled the shirt over my head, tossing it aside. He looked at me and drew a breath.  

I'm slender, but not bony, my muscles long and defined in what Dad called farm boy strength. Push ups and sit-ups every day didn't hurt, either. He looked at me for a long moment, flicked my nipple and navel rings, and then stood up to walk around me. When he stopped in the back I felt his fingers trace the tattoo on my left shoulder blade. It's a sentimental one, a small reproduction of the original Henry Rollins full back ink: Search and Destroy over a red and black sun face.  

Still behind me he said, "Now the jeans." I didn't move. I heard two snaps and a creak of leather, and the next thing I knew his nightstick was across my throat. It wasn't tight, but he pulled down enough to threaten. "Now the jeans," he repeated.  

When I had unbuttoned and unzipped, he backed off to let me get my Levi's down over my hips. He dragged the truncheon over my shoulders, stopping to tap at the tattoo hard enough for me to feel it. I ignored him as I stepped out of my ragged denim. He was still behind me, and his free hand began wandering over my back and ass. It didn't take him long to notice my sub-dermals.  

He ran his fingers over the metal under my skin—an inverted pentagram over my left kidney, about an inch and a half tall, and the same sized goat's head over the right. I think they freaked him out. He finally asked the question I was waiting for. "You some kind of devil worshipper?"  

"What's the right answer?"

"There isn't one, you freak," he growled, and I thought, Uh oh.  

He stepped around to face me, his stick held in his right hand. His tone had me worried, but a quick check told me at least part of him liked this, since those polyester uniforms don't hide much. I checked his face and he was flushed. Was I just too weird for him?  

He brought the blunt end of his nightstick up my thigh, over the tattoo on my left leg. It's a large Japanese carp surfacing to nibble at my balls. He slid up until the end of his nightstick pushed against the inside of my thighs, moving it up to places where I had to force myself not to flinch. He could have hurt me here, and if the Satanic subdermals were too much for him, I was in trouble.  

Instead he dropped to his knees. He ran his fingers through the hair around my dick. It's several shades lighter than the dye job on my head, and I saw him look to compare. "You are such a freak," he said, and to my relief he sounded amused.  

He gave no warning before he leaned over and sucked me all the way down his throat, slow, but with no hesitation. I reached for his head, but he slapped my hands, so that all I could do was watch. No one had ever done me all the way like that, and it was wild. He just held me like that until he had to pull back and breathe, and then he went down again.  At last he pulled all the way back, teasing me with his tongue before he stood up. "My turn," he said. "On your knees."  

I thought for a moment about playing him again, but decided against it. I said, "I might suggest, officer, that you take this lying down." He nodded, and I turned and led him to the bedroom. His hand came up to rub my ass for the few steps it took. Once through the doorway I stepped aside and let him go on ahead of me.  

He loosened his gun belt and set it by the futon, and his Maglight and holster clattered and groaned against the floor. He sat on the low bed, then settled himself back against my pillows, waiting. I sat next to him, rubbing one hand up and down his polished boots until I couldn't take it. I licked up his boots, just for the effect, then made my way up the thigh of his jodhpurs, taking small bites and making him jump until I buried my face in his crotch, tasting and smelling all at once.  

I opened his pants. They were loose around his hips, and he hadn't bothered with underwear, so it took only a moment to pull him free. I sucked him in hard and fast. He gasped, and I held him in my mouth for a moment before I started doing things with the barbell I was pretty sure he'd never felt before.  

I held still at one point, feeling him tremble and watching to see if he would lose it and grab my head and take what he wanted. He didn't. He just said, "Do that again." I did, only slower, and again until finally he lost it.  

When he was done, I sat back with an involuntary shiver. I reached for the bottle of Jack, uncapped it, and took a swig to rinse the bitterness from the back of my throat. Before I could take another, he stopped me, a hand on my wrist.

"I want to taste it."  

I set the bottle down, and bent over his lips, breathing whisky and come on him before pressing down and opening my mouth to his tongue. He kissed like it was a new thing, exploring, playing with the metal bar. Eventually he sat up, dressed, and ordered me to lie down on the bed. He sat next to me and put a hand on my thigh, not looking at my face, but letting his eyes wander all over my body. In a moment, his hands followed, and he touched me, everywhere but where I wanted him most.

"Come on, man," I said. "Do I need to beg?"

His hands stopped moving, and I opened my eyes to look at him. He looked back at me, amused, almost relaxed. "Wouldn't do any good."

"You've done this before," I said.

He shook his head and leaned back. "No, but I could get used to it." He traced one finger up me, and when I arched up my hips for more, he moved his hand away.

"Bastard," I hissed. 

He ignored me, though, shifting position to rub my legs, and even my feet, then tracing the lines of the tattoo on my thigh again. Eventually he moved back, not touching me at all. I ventured an eye open. 

"I want to watch you," he said, his voice rough. "Jack yourself for me."

I started to stroke, but I was a little dry. I wasn't sure whether to reach for the lube or to use spit, but he decided for me, bringing my hand to his mouth and licking it. He put my hand back on my cock, then leaned down and sucked me deep. I thrust up into his mouth, but he backed off, leaving me wet enough.

I watched him watch me for as long as I could keep my eyes open. His gaze was intense, lingering on my hands, my face. His fingers started trailing over me, stopping to run his thumb on the joint of my hip, and pinch my nipples, but mostly running his hands over every inch of skin. It was both hot and distracting, and I don't think anyone had ever spent that much time just touching. 

Eventually, he started to pull on my nipple ring, and I groaned. He leaned down to take it in his teeth, then moved to tongue the other nipple while he pulled and twisted the ring with his fingers. I was getting close, and he could tell. He sat back up and simply pinched my nipple as he watched me come.

I felt wanton, on display, and more satisfied than any jack-off session had ever left me.

After a few moments, I felt him trace a finger through the mess on my chest. "Jesus, that was hot."

"Mmm," was about the best I could do. 

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

I opened my eyes. "Is the investigation ongoing?"

"You understand this is confidential, right?"

"The fact that you do guys, or the fact that you're a cop?"

He didn't answer. "I want to do this again." 

"So we do it," I said. "You think I'm going to tell those punk kids that I'm fucking a cop?"

He smiled, but it was cautious. "I haven't done a cavity search yet." 

It was like he'd hit me in the chest, in a good way. I liked the idea of him fucking me. "Got a warrant?"

"It'll take me to tomorrow to convince the judge." He glanced at his crotch and we both smirked.

He stood and put on his gun belt. I watched him walk away, but he stopped just outside the door to my bedroom. "I'm trusting you, freak," he said over his shoulder.

He stood there for a moment, waiting for an answer. I decided to be an asshole, which was never a stretch. "You going to make it worth my while?"

His shoulders tensed. "Call it a challenge. You like a challenge, don't you?"

I pushed up on my elbows and looked at him, at the line of his shoulders and his profile as he looked back at me without turning. It was like nothing I had ever had before, with the gun and the flattop hair, and it was beautiful and risky. He turned a bit more, and I could see both his eyes. I'd never seen a look like that in my life, of fear and hunger and something I couldn't name, and it was all directed at me.

I nodded, once, and his chin dipped in acknowledgement as he turned to go. The door closed behind him a moment later.  

I laughed up at the ceiling, almost drowning out the sound of his car engine as he drove away.


	3. In which things get a bit more intense

The Outvaders sucked, and the crowd had thinned out half way through their set. As people left I heard complaints I was trying to ignore the noise they called music, but there was a sudden roar inside, voices louder than the guitars, and then I heard over the PA, "All you stupid jerks in this Podunk little club!" 

Their attitude wasn't going over well, and I could tell things might get ugly. I slithered through the remaining crowd, got up on stage before anyone could move, and hit the stage breaker to cut off the power. The guitars lost their scream, leaving the plunking sound of picks on the strings dying in the air.

The PA was still on, though, and I took the mic from the lead singer. "Ladies and gentlemen, you dumb punks, I love you. Show's over. Go home." I looked out over the twenty or so people remaining. "We'll make it up to you somehow, but we're closing."

"What?" The singer said, looking stupid and reaching for the mic.

"Pack it up," I said to him. "We're the only game in town for your kind of music, and if we're not good enough for some band I've never heard of, you can get your crap off the stage." I walked back to the door and turned on the house lights, then herded people out the door while pretending to wander around. It didn't take long. Then I got out the show shovel and went to work.

I had the floor clear of bottles and cans before the Outvaders even had their guitars packed. Officer Hoechst hadn't talked to me at all, and left during the first song of their set. When he passed by me at the door, he flashed three fingers. Three o'clock, and he'd be at my house. I worked fast, but for a group that claimed they couldn't wait to get out of our lame-ass town, they were dragging their tails.

I walked up behind Trey, who was helping load out. He was taping something on the inside of a road case. "What the hell are you dinking around with? If you're helping those jerks, speed 'em up."

Trey jumped. "Lars. I'm just fixing something that broke in here."

"They can fix it themselves. I'm 'way past done here. Move 'em out." 

I was also done with the whining coming from the band, and damn it if the guitarist wasn't starting up again. "If this had been Dallas, they'd have been lining up out the door."

I'd held my tongue through most of the load-out, but enough was enough. "So you've said five times. What, do you pay people to come out and listen to your crap?" I wanted them out of there so bad I picked up an amp head and carried it toward the door.

"Get your hands off our gear."

"Fine," I said, and let Lars the Great, king of chaos take over. I dropped the amplifier I was holding, and it hit the concrete with a bang, loud enough that Ricky came out of the office. 

"Lars?" he said, at the same time the Outvaders' bass player said, "What the fuck? That's my amp head."

"Have they been paid?" I asked Ricky.

"Yeah."

"Good," I said. "Trey, if you're helping, help, but get these assholes the fuck out of my club."

It was one of those times when tall, freaky looking and unpredictable worked in my favor. I picked up drum cases, rolled amps, grabbed milk crates full of guitar cables, and put it all out on the sidewalk near their van. I was careful not to drop or throw anything else. I heard Trey saying something like, "No one fucks with Lars," in a voice so serious that I almost laughed. "If he can't talk 'em down, he can beat the crap out of 'em." I pretended not to hear. 

I kept moving gear until the stage was empty, checked the space for their crap, and then looked over their crap with my flashlight to make sure none of our gear had gone out. I noticed our microphone box and a crate of cables, and picked them up.

"Hey, that's our stuff," one of them protested.

"Ricky?" I called. "Get out here."

He sauntered up, no smile on his face. "Yeah?"

"These ours?"

"Yep. Were they trying to put them in their van?"

"I think so."

Ricky looked at them, and he can pull off this royalty face that no one wants to challenge. "I think you should get packed and out of town before Lars knifes all four tires."

"Can I? Please?" I said, trying not to laugh.

"Get moving before I turn him loose," Ricky said, and I smiled at them like I was there was nothing I wouldn't do.

It seemed to scare them enough to get their asses in gear. We watched as the band, with Trey helping, loaded the gear. I could tell it was a lousy pack that would shift on the highway, but we weren't giving them any extra time. Before he got in to drive, the guitarist walked up. "Shad Turner is going to hear about this."

"Do we need Shad Turner?" I asked Ricky as the guy got into the van and started it.

Ricky looked thoughtful. "Good question, but so far, yes. If we want to get the good touring bands, we have to take a few dogs."

The van squealed and U-turned in the street. I could hear the crash of something falling in the pack. "Fuckers!" several voices yelled at us as they drove off.

"Good line about me knifing their tires. I wouldn't have minded doing it, except then they'd still be here."

"Where's Trey?" Ricky asked.

I looked around. "Must have gone with the band. Look, can you lock up? I'm late."

"Got a date?" Ricky looked at his watch, then at me with his eyebrows raised. It was 3:15.

"Maybe I have a date, and maybe I'm late for my beauty sleep."

He smirked at me. "Go home, Lars. See you Wednesday."

I didn't run to my car, and I didn't break speed limits all the way home, but only because I wasn't interested in Ricky making fun of me, or getting pulled over. The transition from the warehouse and garage district, where Plan 9 stood, was sudden, concrete giving way to live oaks draped in Spanish moss, empty lots, and then the grad student neighborhood where I lived. I stopped at the lights, flashing red this hour of the morning, just enough to avoid any tickets. I only saw one cruiser, parked at a convenience store, with a fat guy behind the wheel who looked nothing like my officer.

There was no sign of him when I got home. I walked into my house, and locked the door behind me out of habit. Then I had a thought, unlocked it, and went to take a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, face smooth, hair spiked and eyes smeared, with a towel around my waist, Officer Hoechst was seated on the loveseat.

"Hello, freak." He sounded just a trace unsure, which I liked.

"Officer," I said. "Got a warrant?"

"You could say that," he answered, running his palm flat over his groin, and it could have been stupid, but his slight hesitation seemed to come from knowing there was danger of cheesy porn dialogue. I liked him better for it.

"Can I get you something?" I asked. Might as well be the host.

"Some of that Jack Daniels," he said.

I went to the kitchen, took a pull from the bottle, and poured him a shot, neat. When I brought it back, he took the drink with one hand, and pulled off my towel with the other.

"Kneel for me, freak." He ran his palm roughly down my abs, across the carp tattoo and around to the back of my knee, where he pushed to make it bend. "On your knees."

I did as he asked, happy that his command voice was taking over and trying to get my head into that space where this was okay. It wasn't easy to shake off a bad night, but the sight of him certainly helped. The slug of whiskey I'd just downed didn't hurt, either. He took a drink and looked at me. I looked back. Neither one of us wanted to talk.

He sipped his drink again, then set it down to reach for my head with both hands. He held me, cupping behind my left ear, and ran the fingers of his other hand over the rings in my eyebrow, flipping them back and forth like I had done at the club the night we met. He took one between his fingers and turned it in its hole, then twisted it, first gently then hard enough to hurt. I let out a small grunt, but stayed there and took it. His lips curled with a small smile. "I can do anything I want with you, can't I?" 

I didn't answer, only shivered as he changed hands and pushed my hair back to expose my right ear. It has 15 rings, one for every year since I started piercing it. He thumbed around the ear from lobe to helix, flicking the rings in their holes, then leaned over to lick the same path. I caught my breath as he took a few hoops in his teeth and pulled.  His breath was hot on my neck, and he smelled of whisky and whatever he used to make his hair stand up. In a moment, I could only think of the pain.

I had to give him points for inventiveness. In all my fantasies, in the few times I'd played this kind of scene, my partners had always gone with the conventional approaches of spanking, or whips that they couldn't bring themselves to swing hard. He hurt me just using my earrings, watching my reactions. He played my ear with his mouth and fingers, punctuating with twists at my eyebrow. It hurt, I couldn't take it, I loved it. 

He must have finally had enough, and backed off, reaching for his drink. Every nerve in my ear still sent heat and pressure signals to my brain. He sat back and sipped, then dipped a finger in the whiskey and let it drip down my ear. He must have torn some of the skin, because it stung, and I hissed. He watched me recover and when I finally caught my breath and looked at him, I could tell he liked it, that he was with the program.

"Bed," he said, and I went, positioning myself on the pillows, the same way we'd ended last night.

He dropped his gun belt, and stripped. The man was ripped, cut, whatever you want to call it, solid and muscled and beautiful. Almost every other guy I'd been with had been some form of Goth boy, androgynous. There was no doubt that he was male.

He ran his hand up the carp tattoo, and then played with me, touched me all over for a good five or ten minutes, pushing me back every time I reached for him. Finally he slid his hand up to pull my nipple ring like it was the lead in the nose of a bull. He moved his head so that I knew he wanted me to sit up. I pushed myself up with my hands, and in one fluid motion he lay back and pulled me by the nipple down over his thighs.  

"Do me."  

As much as I could while he had that sensitive hold on me, I rearranged myself so that I was on my knees next to him, leaning over his dick. 

I took it in my mouth and started to work it, and if he wanted me to repeat some move, he would pull on the nipple ring he still held tight, and turn it in the piercing.  If he didn't like what I was doing, he would twist it and make me hurt. It was clear communication, and I liked that.

After a while he let go and pulled me up by the hair. He looked down and noticed that I'd lost most of my hard, what with no attention to it and my concentration elsewhere. He ran a finger down the shaft, saying, "I'm not sure you're taking this seriously."  I started to lengthen again under his hand, but I didn't say anything. He sat up, and turned to kneel next to me. "I think a cavity search is in order. Turn around."  

"Don't you think that's a little extreme, officer?" I asked, squeezing his dick for emphasis. I'd never taken anything quite that big. Besides, I needed to put up some show of a fight. Things were downright mellow here.  

The next thing I knew he had grabbed one arm, turned me over, and chicken winged it behind my back. "We can do this easy or do this hard."  

I grunted. That hurt, and I was definitely getting hard again. "Your call, officer."  

"Damn straight, freak. Now relax."  He let go of my arm.

I heard him go for the lube, and felt the cool shock followed by a finger. I pushed back against his hand, and he chuckled, letting go of my arm and sliding his hand over my subdermals. "You are such a freak."

He slid into me with force and care, and eventually took me over the edge in a fire I hadn't felt in a very long time. When I was done, he lay on top of me until we were flat on the bed and I could feel the cooling stickiness of my own come on the spread. He slid his hand up my arm, and wrapped his fingers in mine, and waited for a few minutes before he started to move again.  

I usually don't like to be fucked after I get off, but the way he let me recover and the way he just took over my body made it something different. I felt his teeth and lips on my neck and back, the slick of moisture and a chill down my nerves as he kissed and bit. It had been a very long time since I'd been with a guy who touched me. Maybe that was how he got me off again, in a whip, a wave of electricity rising from deep inside. 

He lay on my back when he was finished, his head resting just below my neck and one hand still entwined in mine. Finally he softened enough to pull out easily, a trickle of warm wetness following him. No condom. Like I cared. Hell, I'd do it again if it killed me tomorrow.

I couldn't move. I lay there listening to him go into the bathroom and run water to wash himself. I heard the swish of cloth as he pulled on his uniform, and felt him sit on the futon to pull on his boots. The gun belt creaked as he fastened it, and I smelled leather and sex when he leaned down to touch me. I let his hands slide me over, and opened my eyes only when he stopped, to find him looking at me with speculation. 

"Exhausted this avenue of investigation?" I asked.

"I don't think so."

"Continue this tomorrow?"

He nodded. "You have a show?"

"Not Sundays. See you around ten?"

He paused a moment. "I want to find you on your knees, freak, waiting for me."

Holy fuck. "Then don't be late." I'm not sure how I kept my voice steady.

"Ten o'clock sharp," he said.


	4. Something's not right with this picture

"Lars, are you nuts?" Ricky was not taking this well. I stepped around him, carrying the buckets and mop back to the bathroom. It was our usual Wednesday afternoon prep time. We did basic cleaning before we left on Saturday nights, making sure there were no beer bottles, cans or broken glass, inside or out. It was one of the reasons the cops didn't bother us much. We tried not to make a nuisance of ourselves.

"Are you fucking nuts?" Ricky asked again. He was very pissed off. He almost never swore.

"No, I'm fucking the cop," I called back from _us_ , the bathroom I always did first because it was usually in worse shape. 

"Do you know why he came here in the first place?"

"No," I said, and then thought for a moment. "I think he was doing that police presence thing, you know?"

"No, I don't know."

"Showing up so that there's less underage drinking. That kind of thing." The smell of cleaner was starting to drown out the stench of old pee. Someone had vomited in here last weekend, too. I used to think the literal shit was better than the figurative shit I'd dealt with in grad school, but lately I wasn't so sure. I was done in about five minutes, glad of the headband keeping back my hair and the rubber gloves I bought fresh each week. "Look, I don't want to out him. He's trusting me not to. I just thought you should know."

Ricky was leaning on the doorway to the office when I came out, his hawk features as impassive as usual. Most Wednesdays he looked over the books and we talked business while I cleaned the toilets in _them_ , which was right next to the office door, but he had come out for this conversation. He had on his royalty face. He was waiting to say something to me.

"Next time a band sucks, can you go easy on them?"

"As long as they don't blame us for their suckitude," I said. "That was bullshit. Besides, you were the one who threatened to sic me on their tires."

"Point," he conceded. 

"So, the Outvaders. Why did we have to take them?"

"Like I said, it's part of the deal with Shad Turner."

"Right, and we use him because?"

"He's got the best bands, unless you want to find us someone else."

I didn't take the bait. Ricky handled the books, the business side of things, and I took care of the building and the door. Contract details? Talk to Ricky. Remembering to keep the schedule current on the web page every week? Ricky. Keep the local freaks from causing trouble and attracting the attention of the cops? Me. Cleaning the toilets? Me. We were a good team for long-term planning and strategy, though. In part, it all worked because he would call me on my bullshit and I wouldn't let him tell me what to do.

"So, about this cop," he said. "What's the deal? You almost never bring anyone home more than once."

"That's not true." We both knew I was lying.

He shrugged again. "Women, yes. Men, no. You've had girlfriends, never boyfriends."

The last boyfriend had been long before I met Ricky, so I let it pass. I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Boyfriend? It was an extended weekend." 

"Every night since Friday, you said. What's the deal? Why are you in this?"

It was the question I was asking myself, and probably the reason I'd even brought it up. I hadn't expected Ricky to have a problem with it. "Is it because he's a cop? You know, I didn't have to tell you about this." I shouldn't have told him about it, but if I could trust anyone, it was Ricky.

At that he laughed. "Lars, you tell me everything." 

"And you don't?" I opened the door to them, dragging in the cleaning supplies. 

"You had to find out about Angie on your own."

I snorted. "True, but everyone knew what happened with Angie." 

There was nothing more to be said about her, and no one had seemed more relieved than Ricky when that bitch graduated college the next week and moved on. I think he really cared about her, despite the fact that she had sucked half the cocks in the club. He got into it knowing what she was like, and it still must have killed him when he found her in his office during a show, on her knees with someone else. Three years later, I figured he was still embarrassed that he'd thought it might be different with him. Come to think of it, he hadn't dated anyone since. He hit on people, but as far as I could tell, he chose impossible targets like that dyke drummer from Pocahontas Pontiac.

"About the cop," he started.

"Give it a rest, okay?" I didn't want to get into it, even though I'd brought it up. "How'd we do last weekend? Can we afford to pay me this week?"

And with that, our usual opening to the business discussion, Ricky was off on the litany of expenses and income, and I had a pleasant distraction from the job at hand. When I was done, back in my boots with the gloves thrown away and my hair back in its usual disarray, Ricky turned and picked up something from his desk. He handed me an envelope.

I recognized the writing, even before I looked at the name neatly written above the printed return address in the corner. Professor Deanna Robinson, my former thesis advisor. I folded it and put it in my pocket.

The rest of the week was pretty normal, even though I felt restless. I left the letter on the bookshelf, unopened, wondering what the hell Dee would want with me. Wednesday night was the usual underage night, with an average age of sixteen and the 11:00 closing we insisted on to keep the cops and parents happy. It always required as much crowd control from me as a major show, since the kids kept trying to act like they thought punks and Goths should act. The cop didn't show up that night. Thursday was when we let new bands cut their teeth, unless a touring act came through, so the crowd was light. 

I spent a lot of the time at the door wondering whether Officer Hoechst would show up again. Wednesday I expected him, and Thursday I still thought he might be there, but by Friday I was annoyed. Through the weekend, up to Tuesday, we'd settled into a game of officer and freak, of dominance and submission that was right out of my fantasy life. I tried to get over the fact that it was hotter than anything I'd ever done, that the way he looked at me was more intense than anyone had ever looked at me. He looked at me. I had to start thinking about it with the head on my shoulders. 

That first time I'd had to bait him into taking control, but since then he'd taken the reins. The boy did his homework, and every night there'd been some new twist. There were no condoms, and we had never agreed on safe words, limits, or any of that "safe, sane, and consensual" bullshit. It was probably stupid, even by my standards, but I didn't care. I just wanted more. 

On Saturday night, Doll Howitzer was loud, and good, so most of the kids were in watching rather than out on the sidewalk. I didn't have much to do, and had leaned back against the doorframe to shut my eyes for a few minutes, music in one ear and the echoes off the empty buildings in the other. I felt someone touch my elbow and looked to see Officer Hoechst in his undercover drag. He'd added eyeliner to the black trench and boots, and damn if he didn't look hot. "You're late," I said. "Set's almost over."

"I didn't come for the music." Something in his expression said he hadn't come for me, either.

In the middle of those four days, all I wanted was to know he was coming back the next night. Three days without any sign of him, the gloss had worn off. "Fifteen bucks to get in."

He pulled out his wallet. I noticed he wasn't wearing the rings he usually wore with his club drag. Something about it bothered me.

"Wait," I said. "Are you carrying?"

He started to shake his head, then said, "Yeah."

Truth was good, but I didn't like it. "No weapons inside."

"You want to see my badge?" He sounded sarcastic, demanding. He sounded like he expected me to roll over, but this wasn't my bedroom. This was my business.

"You have a warrant? A real one?"

He held up his hands in surrender. 

"I can't stop you from hanging out on the street, whatever you're here for."

"Fair enough."

"Thanks for not lying to me," I said.

"No problem."

"You coming by tonight?" I didn't look at him when I asked.

"Hadn't planned on it." His voice was carefully neutral, not cold.

I didn't like the way that felt. "Your call," I said, mentally kicking myself. This was stupid and dangerous.

He swallowed. "Usual time?"

"Sure," I said, annoyed. It was like he was a drug, and I knew better, but I reached for it anyway. 

He moved closer to me, our heads nearly touching as he spoke in my ear. The music coming out of the door was too loud for him to whisper, but it was so much hotter to have him say it in a normal voice. "I want you on your knees in the middle of your living room, blindfolded, and hard. Got it?"

I nodded, looking up at him as he moved back. He looked like he was trying to give nothing away, but that told me everything. He wanted it bad. He wanted me bad.

It was hard to ignore him for the rest of the night, but he hung out smoking cigarettes—fake smoking them, I could tell—watching everything that happened until the band thanked Trey for helping, and drove off. He didn't even look at me as he walked away, but I watched him disappear from the circle of light from the last streetlight. Plan 9 was on the only street in this tree-lined town where he could pull off an exit like that.

"That's him, right?" Ricky asked.

"Yeah."

"Why was he hanging out here?"

"I don't know." That was the truth. I couldn't tell what he was looking for, but he had watched the band load out while pretending not to. The jerk didn't even offer to help us clean the empty cans and bottles from the street. "Maybe he just wanted to see what happens after we close."

"Maybe," Ricky said. He wasn't convinced.

"We done?"

"Hot date?"

I shrugged. "I guess so." I couldn't sort out how I felt about it, just that I was going for it.

"I still can't believe you're doing a guy," Ricky said. 

We walked inside. "Mostly he does me," I said, just to yank his chain. Ricky looked at me with an eyebrow raised. I could tell he wanted to say something. "What?"

He shrugged. "Have fun." Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't going to say it.

I went home, showered, shaved and found a bandanna to tie over my eyes.


	5. In which Academe calls

The next morning I woke up with my jaw sore, but my body completely relaxed. It had been a wild night, in some ways, and very simple in others. I sucked him, blindfolded. I knew it was him, knew his taste and smell and sound. Before he came he stopped me, cuffed my hands together, dragged me to the bedroom, and then used his belt to tie my hands over my head to the futon frame. He'd straddled me, taking just enough to hit him where it counted before he took off the blindfold. It was the first time I'd been in anyone bareback in a long time, and it felt incredible. He rode me slow, leaning over me and balancing with one hand, incredible to look at as he jerked off, every muscle standing out.  

I can't say I fucked him. It was more like he used me like a dildo. When he was done, he took his time stroking me off. He checked me carefully when he took off the cuffs, and rolled me over to rub my shoulders. I think I purred before I passed out. The scene didn't look any different in the morning. Whatever I was getting out of it, he was getting something more, something worth the risk of me knowing he was a cop.

I rolled out of bed to the floor, and started the morning with my usual reps—push ups, crunches, mountain climbers, prisoner squats. It was easier when I wasn't hung over, and by the time I was done, I was hungry. Lunch time for normal people. I made a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the coffee brewed, and tried to decide how to spend my day. My library books were probably due. 

I went to the bookshelf to grab the pile of paperbacks, and saw the letter from Dee. It was the first time she'd tried to contact me since I left graduate school, and as much as I wanted to ignore it, I hadn't thrown it away. Part of me wanted to know what was up. It couldn't have anything to do with my book, since the publisher knew where to send the dwindling royalty checks. I picked up the envelope and tore it open the envelope to find a paper, printed. It read like one of Dee's emails.

`Dear Lars,`

`I hope this letter finds you alive. I'm not sure I can ask for "and well," but I hope you're well enough to help me with a problem. Can you please contact me? `

`- D`

It ended with her email address and office phone number. I stared at it for a long time, wondering what the hell she would want. I was just bored enough to find out, but I didn't want to call and leave a message, and wasn't sure I'd do anything if I waited until Monday.

I walked to the public library and returned the pile of paperbacks, and checked out another stack. I'd been working my way through the mystery section, and was only half way through the Robert B. Parker books. I opened one about a woman detective in Boston, and read it as I stood to wait my turn for one of the common computers. 

When one finally opened up, I had to give a dirty look to a teenager who tried to jump the line. My old free email address was expired, so I signed up for one using my real name, and wrote back to Dee.

`Dear Professor Robinson, `

`I'm alive, reasonably well, and curious as to what you might think I can do for you.`

I looked at the computer, added my home phone number, and noted that I wouldn't check the email address very often. It was Sunday, so I figured I'd hear from her sometime next week. I logged out and headed for home. I hadn't been there long when the phone rang.

"Yo," I answered.

"Mister Dahl," came the voice, enunciating each syllable. "Well, I'm glad I can stop checking the obituary pages, which frankly was eating up time better spent elsewhere. It's Deanna Robinson. I got your email." 

The sound of her voice was like someone punching a button. I hadn't heard it in four years, and I remembered all the intellectual sparring. "Working weekends, Dee?"

"Always. It's not like Academe is a nine-to-five job. I'm glad my letter reached you, although I wasn't at all sure you'd get in touch."

"Yep. I confess to a certain curiosity." I could hear myself falling into old rhythms. They didn't quite fit.

"Come by tomorrow, then," she said. "It's a matter of some delicacy, and I'd rather not discuss it on the phone. I can see you at 11:00."

I snorted. She was pulling rank by asking me for help, but then telling me when to come. "Sure. See you then." I hung up before she could say anything. I could play the game, too.

On Monday I walked across the university quad, ignoring the looks from the undergrads. It had been four years, but I still knew the way. I walked into the brick PoliSci building and threaded my way to my thesis advisor's office, wondering what she was going to say, wondering what I was going to say. 

The door was open, so I leaned my head in and said, "So, um, hi."

A young-looking man swiveled away from his computer, and visibly startled when he saw me. He was neatly groomed, wearing a tie and a small goatee. He did not look like Dee. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Professor Robinson."

He blinked. "Oh. She's in her office."

"Okay. This was her office, I thought. Am I wrong, or did she move?"

"I think she's been department chair for a couple of years, so you'll find her down the hall in the main office."

Chair? That was either a good thing or a bad thing. "Great. Thanks." I turned to go.

"Excuse me a second," the guy asked, getting up from his desk. "Are you Lars Dahl?"

How would he make that guess? "Yeah."

He stuck out his hand. "James Mackie," he said. "I joined the faculty last year."

I shook his hand on automatic. He looked awfully young and like he was trying hard to come off as older and more serious with the tie, the haircut and the firm handshake. "Nice to meet you," I said.

"Are you coming back? When I read your book I thought you were on the faculty here, so when I came to interview, I was surprised to find out that you'd dropped out of the doctoral program. Actually, I was surprised they didn't just give you the doctorate for it."

Oh, crap, I thought. This was what I'd been afraid of. "I just came by to see Professor Robinson. Good luck here."

"Thanks," he said. "I'd love to talk to you sometime about what I'm working on, if you're still interested in the field."

Oh, crap, I thought again. Don't ask. Don't get him started. Academics could talk about their work for hours. "Maybe some other time? I only have a short time on campus today," I lied.

"Sure thing. Stop by any time."

As I walked away, I cursed myself. I'd heard my voice falling into those polite academic tones, a harsh contrast to the way I looked right now. Just because it was Monday morning, it didn't mean I'd skimped on the eyeliner.

The effect was not lost on the office staff. The work-study student stared openly, but the battleaxe who had been there forever? She just blinked. For her, that was a big reaction. "Mr. Dahl? You've changed."

"Francine, you don't look a day older."

She didn't smile, but she never did. "That's because I'm older than dirt. Professor Robinson has a student in her office. I assume you're here to see her."

That was odd. She'd told me to come at 11:00. I was only five minutes late. "If she's free."

"Her next meeting is with me, and it can wait while I go look for a fatted calf." She said it with no inflection, and I'd forgotten how dry her humor was.

"No need. This is a social call."

Her eyebrows rose a fraction toward the iron gray frizz around her head. "Suit yourself. Have a seat." She turned to the work-study student, "Mark, bring Mr. Dahl a cup of something strong, black and bitter. It'll match his outfit."

"Two sugars, please," I corrected, knowing better than to expect anything other than non-dairy creamer, then said nothing more, sitting with a recent issue of Political Psychology, and thanking the kid when he brought me the cup. I took a sip, and realized it was very good coffee, better than I remembered from the department. I read an article while I drank it, and skimmed two more, ignoring the sound of voices from the inner office. Eventually a tearful young woman came out, probably undergrad from the look of her, and Dee appeared in the doorway, eyebrows scrunched together as she watched the girl leave. Then she saw me.

"Mister Dahl," she said, dragging out each syllable again, then launching into her more usual rapid fire style, she continued, "My apologies for the delay. Come in. Come in. Oh, wait. Francine?"

"I've already re-booked myself for 3:30 after your class."

"Thank you!" Dee sang. 

I got up and followed her into her office, and she moved the tissue box away from the guest seat. There was quite a pile in the wastebasket. She faced me and extended her hand. I took it. "Lars," she said, and sighed as she shook my hand. "Can't say I like the new look."

"I didn't look that different before."

"Oh, please. There wasn't so much Liz Taylor meets the Road Warrior." She sighed again, and then pulled herself together. Something was bothering her more than my eyeliner. "Sit, sit, sit," Dee said. "How are you?"

"I'm okay." I took the chair opposite her desk and crossed my legs, ankle on thigh. "Department chair?"

"Ugh," she said. "No one else wanted the job. If you think national politics are bad, they're nothing compared to the games the faculty get up to, and Lord, try to get institutional funding for updating the curriculum and classroom space. I mean, how the hell do they expect me to run a program with international partnerships when the teleconferencing facility was top of the line a decade ago?"

I couldn't help but smile at her. "How are you, Dee?" She looked good. There were a few more gray hairs in the curling mass she pulled back into a ponytail, and she was as thin as ever—a tiny bird with a very big brain. 

She pulled her glasses down her nose, and looked at me over the red spots on her black frames. "I recovered from losing my star graduate student." She wasn't going to go personal unless I started it. I wasn't planning on it. "Do you want to come back and finish up? You've got a year left, and if you're making progress, I'll help you get an extension."

"Is that what this is really about?"

"Well," she said, "I'd like you to think about it, but no, that's not why I wrote to you. My daughter is nineteen now. She's been going to Plan 9 since you opened, but now that she's at college I stooped to checking the death notices to see if you were still alive."

"Okay." I wasn't sure where she was going with this.

"So, I have some idea of what that place is like."

"What's your point?"

"Sex, drugs, rock and roll." She waved a hand vaguely in the air. 

"We try to stick to just the latter," I said.

"I'm not going to mince words," she said. "I have a problem, and I don't want the police involved."

"Does it involve sex and drugs?" I asked, meaning to be sarcastic.

"Yes." When I pulled back in mild surprise, she leaned forward on her elbows. "Did you see that girl who left my office?"

"Yes. I figured you'd just given her your usual ear blistering for being stupid."

Dee snorted. "Well, she was stupid, but this didn't have anything to do with class. She invited herself to be gang-raped at a party, and now wants to go to the police. We don't need any more scandals."

This didn't make sense. "And that's why you wrote me a letter almost a week ago?"

"She's not the first one." Dee folded her thin fingers on her desk. "I asked her here this morning because she'd gone to her advisor in Biology. I needed to hear her story, and I wanted you to see the type." I crooked an eyebrow at her. "I'm acting Dean of Women," Dee said. My other eyebrow went up. "You're not associated with the university any more, and we've never heard of anything like this before. It's not like a date rape drug where the girls just don't fight it. This is far worse. They're asking for it. They remember wanting it."

"What do you think I can do about it? That girl didn't look like anyone I'd see at Plan 9."

"True, but." Dee looked away and swallowed. "You're not part of the university, and you're closer to the crowd that might know what this drug is. The girls don't know what they've taken, or when. All they remember is feeling like they need to do something. Afterward, they're ashamed, they want revenge, they want something, and keeping them quiet is pretty hard. This has got to stop."

I couldn't believe this. Dee was coming to me for help because she thought I'd know about this drug, and the one thing she gave me the hardest time about in grad school was the fact that I did things like use drug dealer behavior as examples in class. "What's in it for me?"

Dee pressed her lips into a line. "What do you want?"

I snorted. "I don't even know what you want, much less if I can, or even want to do it."

Her face relaxed. "I want to know where it's coming from, so we can shut it down."

"That means police."

"Yes, it does. But not police on campus." She cocked her head. "This is the first time you've heard of this."

"Yes," I answered, but it felt like a lie. Something was scratching in the back of my brain. "This is a university problem, and not part of the Plan 9 scene. Believe me, I'd probably hear about something like this."

"So, will you help me? At least get us something to go on?"

"Not happening in my crowd, Dee, and I kind of stand out among the frat boys."

"One of the girls," Dee said, "is the daughter of a prominent state senator. She was seen standing on the pool table of a frat house, demanding—" She swallowed, and couldn't look at me. "Demanding sex with multiple partners in very graphic terms."

"So? She get what she wanted?"

"Lars!" Dee didn't sound shocked at my response, but she was reproving. "If you can't bring yourself to care about the young women involved, at least think about this: a scandal like this, involving someone like that, well, it isn't going to help us in the legislature come appropriation time."

I shook my head. "You must be desperate if you called me."

"Well, I've learned a thing or two from talking with you. This is concentrated in the university."

"Anything ever happened to any guys?" I asked, suddenly curious. This was familiar, somehow.

"We don't know who's given it to them."

"Not what I mean. Any guys stand up on a pool table and ask to be fucked?"

"Not that we've heard. I mean it's sort of an extreme date rape drug." Dee sounded dismissive. As smart as Dee was, I'd learned in graduate school to look twice at things she dismissed out of hand.

I stood up. "I don't think I can help you. I don't know anything."

She nodded and stood up. "Well, now that I've got you here, any chance you want to think about finishing your doctorate?"

I hadn't expected her to ask, not seriously. "You're kidding, right? Or is this just to keep my attention on your problem?"

"I don't joke about academic matters, and you know that. You had talent and a first-rate mind. The question is whether you've squandered them on loud music and beer."

"I haven't thought about it that much."

"Think about it. I'm tired of getting calls to the department from people who want you to speak at their conferences. I'd be much happier to answer the where is he now question with the name of at least a second-tier university."

"What do you tell them?"

Dee cracked a genuine smile. "Francine makes something up and couches it as a rumor. You're still notorious enough that it comes up at dinner at most conferences, and her stories get back to me that way. Current belief is that you're either a Benedictine monk, or were killed by an occult order for betraying their confidence. It's generally something hermetic or outrageous, but," she said, suddenly serious, "I'm not the only one who worried you were dead." She smiled again. "Nice to know the eulogies won't be needed. You'll get back to me, won't you, on both questions?"

I shook my head, looking down at her. She cocked her head sideways and up, to look me in the eye. "If I have an answer," I said, "I'll let you know."


	6. No, things are not quite right

I was in a mood. I hadn't been laid since the Doll Howitzer show, two weeks ago, and Ricky had switched us over to fluorescent ink for the hand stamp. The new black light by the door was catching something in Blue's hair dye, and her Mohawk was making my eyes hurt. It was a busy Saturday night, and Blue was trying to talk her way in for free. 

"C'mon, Lars. Just let me go pee," she whined. "You guys changed the lineup again."

I was already pissed off at Turner and ready to blow her off when I spotted a familiar bleached flattop and black trench coat. It changed my mind.  "Okay, I'll let you in if you do me a favor."

"Sure, Lars. What?"

I looked pointedly over her shoulder, and she glanced back to see. "Our friendly undercover cop has decided to grace us with his presence again," I said. "Play him for me?"

"You want me to do him? Just to get in?" Her nose wrinkled. Underneath all that eyeliner and blue hair, she was a spoiled Daddy's girl.

"No, just play him off and on all night. Fuck with his head."

"Okay, whatever." She shrugged. "Can I go pee now?"

"Yeah, go." I stamped her hand with the fluorescent ink, and she passed into the noise of the band on stage: Auschwitz in Plaid. At least they didn't suck. Officer Hoechst stepped up. He handed me the cover charge, and I stamped his hand, noting that he was wearing the rings. "Not carrying?" I asked, pitched so that only he would hear.

"Not," he said, and we nodded at each other as he followed Blue inside. Cool. Real cool. Fucking asshole. There was more to it than that, though. Ever since my meeting with Professor Robinson, I'd had an itch in the back of my mind. I felt like I should know something about this drug she thought was going around. Usually, I knew about everything like that in town. Plan 9's reputation with the cops and parents wasn't entirely undeserved, and on top of that, people usually tell me things, offer me samples, keep me in the loop. I didn't like not knowing. 

I was also bothered by her invitation to go back and finish my doctorate, and the implication that she wasn't sure I still had it. Two years ago, even last year, I wouldn't have cared. I'd have told her to go fuck herself. But working my way through the mystery shelf had brought me past Robert B Parker to Ellis Peters, and her damn monk detective. Reading his introspection, that character's views from a fictional 12th century life, was messing with my head. What was it Dee had said? Most of my former academic colleagues thought I'd ended up doing something hermetic? Navel gazing was not for me.

And no word from Officer Hoechst. Screw Dee and grad school. My problem was too much thinking and not enough sex. Seeing him, taking his money, it only reminded me of being cuffed to my bed at his mercy, and I felt a tightness I couldn't afford right now. I wondered why he'd dropped out of site. They could have pulled him off undercover duty. They might have found out he was doing one of his surveillance subjects. Hell, if they knew that, he might have been fired for being a faggot. Who could say?

I snorted, laughing at myself. I was pissed off in part because he was back and acting like dropping out of sight was nothing, and I was pissed off because I even cared. I felt like a twelve-year-old girl with a crush. The obnoxious Blue was my little revenge, but I doubted she'd get a rise out of Officer Hoechst. Tuna just wasn't his dish. Seemed I wasn't his dish any more either. 

I flagged Ricky and passed the door over to him, then headed back to the bathrooms. I picked the door marked them since it was usually empty and cleaner. Who wants to be one of them when you can be one of us? After I came out, I took my time getting back to the door. I guess I wanted to see if he would talk to me, and it's not like I'm easy to miss. You have to want to miss me, and he did.

I used the slow walk to the door to get in some face time with the regulars, and grab a beer from the stash at the soundboard. Ricky looked annoyed by the time I made it to the door, but I just shrugged and took over the chair. If I was in a mood before, I was downright bitchy by then. 

I looked down the street, and saw a wannabe gutter punk giving shit to the resident vampire chick. He was one of the new crop that came in with the new school year, and I wasn't sure of his name. She was baring her teeth at him, and he was laughing. I moved quickly, because the young ones were the worst troublemakers. As I walked up I heard him say, "Veggie vampire. How stupid is that?"

He was bigger than her, and the body language was threatening. He had her backed to the wall, and some of his friends around to egg him on, laughing at the way she snarled and hissed at them, the way she lunged with her mouth open, baring her fangs. They moved aside when I came up, but he didn't see me until I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Y'know what's stupid?" I said. "Stupid is ganging up on a girl half your size. Stupid is cornering something that's willing to bite. Stupid is doing anything here that will attract the attention of the police. What do you think that looked like from down the road?"

He shook his shoulder, but I tightened my grip. He said, "I don't know. What?"

"Looked like somebody was about to get assaulted."

"We were just having some fun."

"She wasn't." I used my hand on his shoulder to turn him toward the parking lot. "It wasn't her I was worried about, but you. See, she doesn't eat animals, but she doesn't consider people to be animals, and I've seen her bite. It's nasty. Go home, come back another night, and don't be stupid."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but I just looked at him, doing my best to be imposing. He stepped toward the parking lot, and I let go of his shoulder. His friends followed him, and when I was sure they were leaving, I turned back to the door. Officer Hoechst was standing less than ten feet from me.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Stupid kids," I said, and walked over to the girl. "You okay?"

She gave me a vampire smile. "I didn't need your help."

"So what?" I said. "It's Gina, right?" She nodded. "Listen, Gina. I had no desire to have to call an ambulance, or to have some kid show up for stitches in the emergency room saying he got bitten at Plan 9. Got that? Now go back inside."

"I didn't pay. I came to see the Innerviews, and you cancelled them."

I didn't feel like explaining our booking problems to her, but I said, "Wasn't our doing. Sometimes we have to take what we can get. I'll let you in, but go in, or go home."

"It's a public sidewalk," she said, sounding more like the bratty teenager she was. "Big man gets to be protective and then tell me what to do?"

"Don't be stupid," I said. "The cops don't like us, and your parents don't like us, so we keep everything as cool as possible. I don't give a shit about protecting you. I'm protecting Plan 9. You even threaten someone with those teeth again, and you're banned."

Her answer was to turn with a dramatic swirl of cape, but she turned toward the door and went inside.

My officer was still standing there. "What?" I snapped.

"Nothing." He went back inside and I took the stool again. He went back to Blue, and every now and then I'd spot them. He had his arm around her, and she was actually leaning into him.

Eventually the bands quit and the kids started to head home. On his way out, some drunk guy in a Greek letter shirt shoved one of his friends toward me. I caught him, but he managed to spill most of his beer down my jeans. It looked like they'd done it on purpose, but tonight was bad enough without me getting into it. I marked their faces. They wouldn't be allowed back in. Almost everyone was gone except Blue and Officer Hoechst, who hung out talking at the edge of the chill space, but I didn't tell them to leave as the bands loaded out. I tried not to pay too much attention to the two of them, because after the crap with the Outvaders, I needed to keep my eye on Trey as he helped haul gear. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, and the band didn't try to take anything of ours. I realized that my officer was watching, too, even though Blue probably thought he was getting into her.

Ricky paid the band, and they left. When he stepped out of the office, he looked at Blue and Officer Hoechst, then at me. "Time to go, folks."

"Sure. Sorry." Hoechst looked at Blue. "Can I give you a ride?" She tucked her hand under his arm in answer, and leaned her head on his bicep, the top of her Mohawk brushing his shoulder. "Good night," he said to me like I was some guy who worked the door at a club he went to sometimes. Fine. Whatever. Blue gave me a wicked smile that made me feel worse. 

I went on with my end of the night clean up routine, bored out my skull, and more than a little pissed off. I didn't seem to be in any hurry to get home.

"What's your problem, Lars?" Ricky asked as I chucked bottles into the dumpster one at a time, just to hear them break.

"I don't know. That vampire chick pissed me off tonight. That skinhead asshole pissed me off tonight. Some frat boy spilled a beer down my leg."

"And the cop took Blue home. How long has it been since you got laid?"

Some days I hated Ricky. "Right. That's all it is. Bored and pissed off. And horny," I admitted.

"Bored?" Ricky picked up a bottle, and tossed it into the dumpster. It crashed with a satisfying noise.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Bored right now, or bored in general?" He didn't look at me.

"I don't know."

He didn't push it, and together we dumped the barrel into the dumpster, the crash of glass on metal as loud as anything that came out of the speakers on the stage inside. "I saw my thesis advisor this week," I said as we lowered the can to the ground.

"Yeah?" was all he said, but he looked at me, waiting.

"Two things. She asked if I wanted to go back to grad school."

"Do you want to?"

"Starting to wonder," I said. "Second thing was about a date rape drug showing up on campus."

"Seen it here?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I don't think so." There was still something at the back of my mind I couldn't get.

"About the cop," Ricky said. "I did some checking. He's not local."

That stopped me. Ricky's information was usually good. "You mean he's not really a cop?" Ricky didn't answer. I didn't think any one could be that good an actor. Plus my officer carried a gun where it could be seen, and he wasn't stupid. He had to have some kind of badge. Two plus two added up to a number I didn't like. "Or I've been fucking a federal agent."

Ricky shrugged. A couple of pieces slotted into place. I said, "He showed back up when Turner switched bands again."

Ricky looked at me over the empty garbage can. "You're right."

"Something's going on under our noses. Fuck." I picked up the trashcan and we walked back inside.

"You going to see him tonight?"

"I doubt it," I said, trying not to sound bitter. "He's probably balls deep in Blue right now."

Ricky stopped and put a hand over his eyes. "I did not need that image in my head."

The image wouldn't leave me, either, and as we finished cleaning up, I occupied myself trying not to think about watching him, not to imagine standing next to him as he sucked my dick while he fucked her from behind. By the time I drove home, I had almost convinced myself I wasn't going to jack off in the shower thinking about it. 

When I got home, though, something was wrong. The light was on in my living room. I drove past my house and parked down the street, far enough so that whoever it was wouldn't see my car from the window. I didn't see Hoechst's usual car, didn't see any unfamiliar cars at all. This was weird. I never left the light on, and only Ricky had a key.

I snuck up to the front window to look in. There were two boys in blue. One was my officer in his motorcycle uniform, and the other I didn't recognize. His patrolman's uniform was different from the local cops, but he wore his gun like he owned it. It wasn't drag; he just wasn't from around here. And he was big. Hoechst only came up to the guy's shoulder, where he came up to my chin at least.

They were hanging out in my living room, apparently waiting for me. I watched them for a few seconds more, trying to decide whether or not to leave and crash at Ricky's. This looked dangerous. It also looked hot. Very hot. It also made me wonder what the fuck was going on. Curiosity, as always, was my downfall.

I tried to walk in like I usually came home to two cops in the living room. "Evenin', gentlemen," I said, trying to figure a way to talk to my officer without this guy around. He would only glance at me, not long enough to catch his eye. With the stranger in the room, I tried to follow his lead, but I wasn't happy.

The big guy looked over at me, gave me that I'm cop and you're scum attitude I remember from being picked up, then said "You're right. He is a freak," as if I weren't even there.

I ignored the fact that I was being ignored, and spoke to the room at large, venting the frustration I'd been feeling all night and the anger that was building. "Well, this freak smells like smoke, and some asshole spilled a beer down my leg. If you'll excuse me, I'm grabbing a shower." I turned toward the bathroom.

"Not a very well trained freak," I heard the deep voice behind me, as I closed the door.

I peeled off my T-shirt before his meaning hit me. Trained? I thought. Everything else went out of my head while I tried on that one for size. My cop and I had played our scenes, sure, but that word meant full-on lifestyle. Had he brought this guy because he thought I wanted that? 

I thought about locking the bathroom door, but decided I didn't want to have to explain to my landlord how it got kicked in. If they wanted in, that lock wouldn't stop them. I stripped, got in the shower and tried to figure out what was going on as I washed my hair and shaved. One thing was for sure, my dick knew no fear, but I tried to ignore it and figure out what the hell to do. I didn't get very far in my thoughts. The water was turned off and the shower curtain pulled aside, and they stood side by side. My officer was wearing a strange expression, and still glancing between the big guy and me.

Mr. Patrolman, though, just looked me up and down, eyes stopping on the carp tattoo on my thigh, on the nipple and navel rings. I looked back at him, taking in his green eyes, his broad chest, and the sizable bulge in his blue slacks.

"Turn around," he ordered.

I started to give him attitude, but something on my officer's face told me to just do it. I turned my back to them. 

"Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs," he said in that tone that held threat. I did what he asked, got in frisk position, but what was there to pat down? An unfamiliar hand landed on my ass and rubbed across me, then grabbed one butt cheek and squeezed hard enough to hurt. He squeezed the other, then smacked me one. It was an open hand swat, and it stung like hell. He hit me twice more, harder. I did my best to maintain composure, but I was having a little trouble breathing by the third one. This was nothing like what my officer and I had done. He only hit me if I goaded him into it, and then only one slap at most. This was just, I didn't know, discipline? The weird thing was it settled my mood, got rid of the edginess I'd been feeling all night.

They told me to turn around again, and the big cop said, "He'll do, Brian. Get him ready." It took me a second to realize that Brian must be Hoechst's first name, the B. on his nametag. As soon as the door shut he turned to get a towel. I reached for it, but he knelt and started to dry me off, working his way up from the feet, finally reaching up to squeeze the water out of my hair. He was surprisingly gentle. 

When he was standing next to me, I said, "So what's going on? Who is that guy, and where have you been? With him?" 

 I expected to be told to shut up or something, but he just said, "Yeah."

"So what's the deal?" I asked. "What makes you think you can bring another fucking cop into my house? Or is he a fed, too?"

He looked up at that, a flare of movement around his eyes. "What makes you think I'm a federal agent?"

"I'm not stupid, Officer Hoechst. What the hell is going on here?"

I felt a little better when he seemed to have a hard time saying what he wanted to say. "It's not what you think. I was trying to find out how to give you more of what you like. He's been training me." 

That wasn't the question I meant, but I followed his lead. "Where did you find him?"

"We met on line."

Oh, that's fucking perfect. "Seriously? Where? Hot bondage cops dot com?" Right, like I was Mr. Internet. I didn't even have a computer any more.

He glared at me. "No. Look." Brian swallowed. He knew this didn't sound good. "It's a fairly high-class site, from what I can tell, and he's real police. It's been pretty up front. He just doesn't want you to know his name. He's taught me a lot."

His words were strung together so randomly that I could tell he was trying to convince himself as much as me. "So what's this, your graduation?" 

"Sort of. Hands on demo, I guess." He looked nervous, like he was afraid I'd bolt. 

I was tempted to kick them out, or at least try. I had no illusions about whether they could force the issue if they chose. On the other hand, how often was I going to get an opportunity like this? Fuck first, ask questions later. I made myself get one question out. "So, is this going to show up on your GSA performance review?"

His eyes went wide, and his face started to pale. "What?"

"You're a federal agent investigating something at my club. When this is over tonight, you're going to tell me where you're from. You want me to trust you? You're going to have to trust me."

He put his hands on my hips. "I've been trusting you."

I shivered at the tone of his voice, but I said, "No, you've been giving me blackmail material that you think I won't use."

He froze for a moment, then shook his head. "You've known all along that I'm in law enforcement, and you could bring me down if you tried. Just, please—" His gaze caught mine, held it for a long minute while his thumbs rubbed the skin just inside my hip bones. "Trust me completely, or tell us to leave now." 

It wasn't good enough, but I didn't know what to say

"It'll be good, I promise. Lars—" he started, and then he broke off, looking down at one of his hands where it held my hip.

I was still on the fence, and then it hit me: this was the first time he'd ever said my name, and worse yet, it mattered to me. Still worse was the idea that he might have put me in a position to destroy his career, but whatever he was after at Plan 9 could destroy my life. I didn't say anything for a few moments, trying to figure how to play this. I had to keep him happy, and part of me wanted to just fucking give over. On impulse, I leaned down and kissed him, and I gave him everything I had, trying to find out something, to tell him something, but just what, I didn't know. He answered, and it was different. Instead of his usual way of taking what he wanted, this kiss felt like he was trying to tell me something, too.

He pushed me back, his face serious. "Do you trust me?"

"Brian," I said, paused, and let sink in the weight of using his name and not calling him officer. "You can do whatever you want to me." Maybe I was blackmailing him back, and maybe I just didn't give a fuck what they did to me. However this went down, I wanted them to take me where I didn't have to think, to worry about goddamned Shad Turner, or Trey or federal agents. And in the end, if it hurt me, did it really matter?

He wouldn't look at me, but he said, "I'll watch you. I promise I'll watch you and take care of you."

Whatever. "And when this is over, you tell me what you are, and why you're here."

He nodded, and pulled my head down to kiss me again, but this was slow, almost soft, tongues barely touching.

When the kiss broke, his face looked different, and the traces of nerves were gone, or at least covered up with the cop mask. "I have to get you ready." He didn't talk to me after that, didn't break control. Getting me ready consisted at first of combing back my hair and removing the last traces of eyeliner. The hair took a few minutes, since I don't rake it out very often, and it was tangled. As for the eyes, well, I caught a glance in the mirror, and I didn't look like what I think of as me.  

Then he stood me up and turned me around. I heard the familiar sounds of him opening the lube, felt the familiar sensations of his fingers getting me ready. His other hand played over my back, pushed hard on the subdermals over my kidneys, and I pushed back, wanting more, but he was all business. He moved past me to wash the lube off his fingers, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a collar. He fastened the black leather around my neck an attached a leash to it. "C'mon, freak. Let's go meet the Sergeant." he turned, and a tug on the leash told me to follow him. Without looking at me he said, "Be good, freak."

"I'm always good," I whispered into his short, bleached hair, and then leaned to lick across the back of his neck.

He stood tense, hand on the bathroom door. "I'm serious, Lars. Don't fuck with him." 

I had every intention of fucking with him, of pushing them both to see how hard they'd take me down. "Mmm. Why not? He seems so very fuckable," I mumbled into his neck. "Have you fucked him yet? Or did he do you?"

Brian was still tense, and ground out, "No. You're the only person who's ever been… there."

I laughed into his hair because he couldn't even say it, and I laughed to cover my shock, but instead of showing it, I gave him sarcasm. "Oh, I am so honored."

He spun and cuffed me hard on the head with an open hand, pulling down hard on the leash. "You will shut up, and you will behave," he whispered with gritted teeth. "And you will not embarrass me, understand?" The heel of his hand knocked me again behind the ear. 

He was scared and angry, but mostly scared. I gave him a look, then wondered if my smoldering look still worked without all the black around my eyes. Probably not.

Suddenly I felt very naked and very defenseless.


	7. Good dog

We stepped out into the living room, and I followed like some bizarre cop pet. The Sergeant sat on the beat up Victorian loveseat, wearing mirror shades. He filled the whole piece of furniture, arms stretching out across the back, one ankle across the other knee. Brian caught me staring, and jerked on the leash. "Eyes down." I did what he asked, and focused on his boots.

"Bring it here," I heard the big guy say. 

"Yes, Sergeant," Brian said, and led me over, then pulled down on the collar so I would kneel. I went down on my knees, then decided to go all the way, and put my head down on the floor next to the Sergeant's foot. He brought down his crossed leg, slid his shoe under my forehead and roughly half pushed, half kicked me to sitting up.

"Did I tell you to do that?" His voice was calm.

"No," I said, with a trace of insolence. 

"No, Sergeant," he corrected, his shoe suddenly under my chin. 

In one sense, this was straight out of some cheesy smut book, but all I could think about was making sure he didn't kick me in the face. It was sort of relaxing. "No, Sergeant," I said, and he put his foot back down.

I looked up at him, and I could see myself in his mirrored glasses. Long, skinny, no spiked hair, no eyes—I felt like a strange, raw version of myself, and I had to drop my eyes. This was going to be a very weird night. 

They let me just kneel there. My officer stood at parade rest, the leash in his hand. The Sergeant sat comfortably on my loveseat. They gave me plenty of time to get nervous. No one was touching me, no one was doing anything to me, and my mind wandered, wondering just what kind of law enforcement officer Brian Hoechst was, why he trusted me not to out him, and why the hell I was letting him put me on my knees in front of a stranger who was yet another Goddamned cop. They left me long enough for my imagination to turn to what they might do with me, and being naked, I couldn't hide how much it turned me on.  I have no idea how long it was before anyone spoke. 

Apparently I'd passed another test. The big guy said, "See that, Brian? See how hot he is for us? See how he's behaving himself?"

"Yes, Sergeant." 

"If you start by stripping him down like this, his usual attitude doesn't fit him any more." The deep voice was lecturing, and underneath it I could hear the tones of drill instructor. "When that's gone, you can shape him how you like. What would you like tonight? Servant, sub, or sex dog?"

There was half a second's hesitation, and I found myself wishing for telepathy, then my officer said, "Sex dog, please, sir."

Maybe telepathy worked.

"All right. Do you hear that, dog?"

"Yes, Sergeant," I said. 

He put his polished police oxford under my chin again. I can't say I liked it, but like I said, it gave me something to focus on. 

I felt my collar tighten as Brian pulled on the leash, and glanced at the patrolman again. He used his foot to push my head sideways. "Eyes down. Show me what that mouth can do." I didn't move. They were expecting me to start blowing him, but it wasn't going to be that easy. 

"You got a problem, freak?" Brian asked.

I looked up at him, attitude intact. "No."

He had my ear in a flash, the left one, and he began to twist the highest of the three piercings. "No, officer," he corrected.

He made his point with an extra jerk on the leash. After one last look I dropped my eyes, wondering what I really wanted. "No, officer."

The grip on my ear gave him a handle to pull my head forward. This time I didn't resist, but instead opened my mouth to let the Sergeant see my tongue stud. Brian let go of my ear, and I did the things he liked best, things that usually made his knees weak, but he seemed to be maintaining his composure. Maybe he'd learned more control from this Sergeant guy. I gave him plenty of reasons to react, too, and at first I made sure our audience could get the full effect, but at some point I forgot about anything but what I was doing. I got a rhythm and started trying to make him come. He was starting to get close when the Sergeant said, "Enough."

I ignored the order. My officer decided for me by pushing my head back. I looked up, begging for more with my eyes, and when he shook his head I turned to the Sergeant, only to find him lazily stroking himself, pants open and pushed partway down his thighs. He was big, his dick definitely in proportion to his size.

After half a second I lunged at it, partly to play the role they had set for me, and partly real desire. The collar and leash caught me short, though, and I went back on my haunches, coughing from the pain at my throat.

Sex dog. It was an easy role to play.

I wanted to see what I could do, see if I could own him by giving him the best head he'd ever have. I lunged again, but this time I was ready for the tug on the leash, looked for it, enjoyed being held back from something I wanted. The Sergeant remained impassive, but he let go of his dick. And reached for his gun. "You hungry for something, freak? You want to suck on this?" 

I was in my right mind in an instant. He held his pistol out, fingers around the grip, but far from the trigger. I didn't move, but I couldn't take my eyes off the dark metal, the word to end this forming in my mouth. It was the first self-protective instinct I'd had in four years.

Something seemed to pass over my head between the two cops, and he put it back in the holster. I relaxed a fraction. Brian had read me right, and not asked me to go farther than I could, but I lay down at his feet, not sure I could keep doing what he was asking.

Brian crouched next to me and pulled me up by the collar. "Sit up, boy," he said, as if I really were a dog. He petted my hair and scratched me behind the ear, and if it hadn't been for the look on his face, it would have been humiliating. He was worried about me and wanted me to do well, and although this scene was nothing I would have chosen, I found that I didn't want to let him down. Then he whispered, "This is for you, freak. Stop it if you want to, but this is all about you. I'll take care of you." 

I leaned into his hand, letting him continue to scratch behind my ear. We'd played enough scenes that I could understand why he thought it was a gift, something I would want, and maybe I did want it. He'd shown he could read me when he got the Sergeant to back off with the gun. I should be able to trust him, at least in this.

"Good dog," he whispered. "Be a good dog for me."

Brian looked into my eyes for a long time, and I don't remember what else he whispered. It wasn't easy, but I let myself go. 

It's hard to talk about what happened next. For want of a better word, they trained me, rewarding the behavior they wanted, withholding reward when I didn't comply, hurting me in all the right ways. And, holy fuck, it was all so clear, so easy, even when what they wanted was hard, because I knew what they wanted. In the end, to reward me, they put me in frisk position against the wall, and Brian sucked me while the Sergeant used his night stick. He had incredible control over how hard he hit me, and I went down into myself, living only for the sensations of Brian's hot mouth, the cooling of spit where his mouth had been, and the blunt pain and lingering ache at every spot the Sergeant hit me. Everything moved—the blows, Brian's mouth, the air around the nightstick as it came down. Every now and then the Sergeant would stop to ask if I wanted more, and every time I said, "Yes, Sergeant."

But they stopped when I was about to come, and put me on my hands and knees. I heard the Sergeant roll on a condom, felt lube, and felt like I was being ripped apart. Brian knelt in front of me, and I heard the Sergeant give us orders, obscene ones, and I did my best to comply. His grip on my hips was tight enough to bruise, and the noises I made joined into one long groan of pleasure and pain, vibrating around Brian's cock in my throat. In the end, there were three voices of breath—Brian nearly recovered, the Sergeant panting with aftershocks, and me gasping my need to come. I opened my eyes and looked at my officer, pleading. He just looked back at me and said, "Good boy. Finish yourself off."

It was as if I'd forgotten I had hands, but once the suggestion got into my brain, I took care of myself while they watched, and I came hard, intense, and fast. Once my shudders slowed down, I felt their hands, picking me up. I could barely walk, but Brian got me to the bedroom, lay me down on my side, and then walked out. It was the way we normally ended our sessions, times two. I could hear them both putting themselves back together. Before they left, my officer came in with a towel and wiped the mess off my face and the lube from my ass. He stroked my head before taking off the leash and collar. "Good dog," he whispered behind my ear.

Before he could stand up, I reached back and up, and grabbed his shirt. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

He laughed softly, and rested his head on mine. "I go to church in the late afternoon."

"You're kidding me."

"No." He rolled his forehead above my ear, shaking his head.

I wanted to laugh, but I was so wrung out that if I'd started, I wouldn't have stopped. "Freak," I said.

"Brian," the Sergeant called from the living room.

Brian sat up and called back, "Coming, sir."

"Is that your real name?" He nodded. "I'm too wiped out," I said, rolling onto my back, "but we need to talk."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and stroked my head again. "I can't get back here until Thursday at the soonest. No, make it Friday. Can it wait for next weekend?"

I decided to push. "No. Thursday. We have a band coming through. After the show?"

He paused. "Thursday's tough, but I can make it. I have to cancel some meetings on Friday."

He was willing, and that mattered. It also told me he lived out of town, which wasn't a surprise. "Make it Friday night then."

He snorted. "Jerk. I won't make it to the club. Usual time after, and I'll meet you here?"

"Yeah." I rubbed my head against his hand. "Brian?"

"What?"

"No uniforms. Just you. And bring your ID."

"Brian!" the Sergeant called again.

"Not done here, sir," Brian called back. 

"Put your dog to bed, and let's go."

I reached up and touched his shirt, reading the letters pinned on his uniform collar for the first time. BPD. I wondered what town the B stood for, because it wasn't here.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"DEA." He kissed my cheek and stood up. "I'm trusting you, freak."

I said quietly, "Yes, officer." The impression of his lips on my face burned as much as the other parts of me they had used.

He trailed his fingers down my leg on his way out, and I listened to the door lock behind them.

 _Drug Enforcement Administration_. Shit.


	8. Threads come together

Right after noon the next day I opened up the door to Plan 9, and punched in the alarm code. A dance group was coming in to use the space, and I needed to do my cleaning routine a few days early. I grabbed my wellingtons from the supply closet and sat down on the couch in the chill space to pull off my boots. Headband, new gloves, and I was ready to be the charwoman. 

The bathrooms were first, and although it was easier to do it the day after the show, I hurt too much to appreciate it. Besides, I missed having Ricky around for our usual Wednesday talks, and right now I had a lot to tell him. I thought music might distract me enough, so I went up to the soundboard and put in some old Operation Ivy. Ska and sarcasm would suit my mood.

Every move reminded me of last night, and there was something about doing this job after that scene that was irritating. "Servant, sub, or sex dog?" the Sergeant had asked. I was in servant mode, cleaning the toilets, sweeping the stage and the concrete floor. Brooding. What had I been thinking to bring home a cop—a fucking DEA agent—when I had my own drug stash, when he was investigating something going on at my club? The funny thing was that when I looked this morning, the stash box was covered in dust, and I realized it had been a long while since I'd done anything but drink. So they hadn't searched my house, which was good, but I still didn't know what the DEA was after. If it was Dee's date rape drug, he was in the wrong place. 

The telephone rang at about two in the afternoon. I expected it to be the dance divas, because it was rare for someone to be here on Sunday. I expected Ricky today, since this was his booking, but he was usually out of town from Sunday to Tuesday night. I opened the office with my key and picked it up before the answering machine could get it. "Plan 9. Lars here."

"Is Richard there?" The voice was deep, with an accent that was Southern, but not local. Cracker inflections with Virginia slowness.

"I'm sorry?" It took me a few seconds to realize who he meant. "Oh, Ricky. No, he's not in. Can I take a message?"

"Actually," said the voice, and it was a deep one, "I was expecting the answering machine."

"If you'd like I can hang up, so you call back and leave a message. Or I can take one for you. Either way."

"May I ask who this is?"

"Lars Dahl. I'm Rick— Uh, Richard's partner. Who's calling?"

"Ah, so you're Mr. Dahl. You wouldn't be the same Lars Dahl who wrote that book on modeling political behavior outside of traditional politics, would you? The one that used game theory to show the parallels between cube dwellers and corner office types?"

I could feel the blood draining from my face. He probably expect me to say no, or huh? Plan 9 isn't where anyone would expect to find an academic, but it was former academic in my case. Then again, I wouldn't expect someone who read my work to be calling Plan 9 looking for Ricky, either. "Yeah."

"Oh, my," he said, and I found his surprise satisfying. "Fascinating stuff. Are you working on another book?"

"Nope," I said, trying to make it sound final. "Who's this?"

"My apologies. This is Shadrach Turner. Would you please let Mr. Cabot know that the singer from Sin Fine has taken ill?"

That was the band we were expecting for Thursday, a growing name with a punk Celtic sound and a sarcastic attitude about Irish politics. This was Sunday. "Won't she be better in a week?"

"No, it's rather serious, I'm afraid. A broken ankle will keep her off the road for a few months, but don't worry. She'll be fine, and in the meantime I won't leave you with an empty night. There's a new cover band that will be in the area and has a night free." 

"Cover band? Like a tribute? Who do they cover?"

He told me the name of the duo, a punk cabaret act that was all the rage. I wasn't sure that anyone else could pull off their act, and said so.

"You'll be pleasantly surprised, I'm sure, and since it's a change of plans for you, you'll have them at half their normal booking price. Three hundred?"

It sounded like a lot to me, but this was Ricky's arena. "I'll have my partner call you back."

"I look forward to hearing from him. Nice to finally make your aural acquaintance." There was a click as he cut the connection. 

Ricky's cell phone number was embedded in my brain, and I called him immediately.

"Yeah, Lars." He sounded distracted, but not so out of it that he didn't check the caller ID.

"I just made the aural acquaintance of one Shadrach Turner."

"The what?"

"That's the way he put it. He called to leave a message, but I was here sweeping up for the dance troupe."

"What did Turner want?"

"He wanted me to inform Mr. Cabot that Sin Fine would not be coming on Thursday due to a broken ankle."

"Shoot," Ricky said. "Who's he sending instead?"

I told him about the cover band. "Do you know what that's going to bring in? Not our regulars, that's for sure. There'll be a bunch of college kids." I hated when that happened. Plan 9 had an undeserved reputation for being a rough place. It was only true when the college kids who weren't part of our usual crowd were there to make it true. "Any way we can ditch it?"

"No," Ricky said. "The sad fact is that they'll bring in money. I'll get Trey to paper the university with flyers."

Trey. What was it about Trey that was bugging me? Those skinheads from a few weeks back, the ones that were tripping, and wanted to get Trey the next night. Trey said they'd had sex with each other, and they were ready to beat him up over it. I hated two plus two. "They'll bring in something else, too, I bet. Got a news flash for you." I paused, wondering how Ricky would react.

"What is it?"

"Your info was good. That cop isn't from around here. He's DEA."

Ricky groaned. "We need this like a hole in the head."

"No shit. I got more. You're not going to like it, either, and I hope to hell I'm wrong."

"Let's have it."

"Remember I told you my old thesis advisor was worried about a date rape drug?"

"Yeah."

"Well it wasn't like the usual ones. The girls want it, ask for it." 

"And?"

"I think Trey has something to do with it."

"Why hasn't it shown up at Plan 9?"

"It did, but I didn't know what I was seeing." I told Ricky about the two skinheads and their shared bite marks.

"This is not good."

"Thoughts? I told Turner you'd call him back."

"Let's make sure. I'll head in after I wake up. When are the dancers supposed to be there?"

"Three o'clock to dress the stage, show from seven to nine."

"They're bringing chairs. They'll want help setting things up."

I didn't like the implication. Ricky and manual labor were barely acquainted, so I'd just been volunteered, and my ass was too sore. "You charging them for this?"

"No," he sighed. "They can barely afford the fee to use the place. Make them do the work but be a gentleman and help out."

"When am I a gentleman?" I asked.

"More than you know." There was a moment's pause, and then he said, "I'll be there about an hour before they're supposed to start."

"Fine," I said. Then, "Ricky?"

"Yeah."

"Turner said he'd read my book."

There was another pause before Ricky said, "I'm sorry, man," and hung up.

I stared at the phone for a minute. He didn't want to talk about it, but hell, neither did I. The guy who booked the tours had read my Master's thesis, and I'd come here to get away from all that. He was probably running drugs through Plan 9, too. And what had Ricky meant by the gentleman crack? It was just more layers of weird on how much today was going to suck, and with my luck, this wasn’t going to be the end of it.

Before I could go back and finish the sweeping, the phone rang again. Gentleman, huh?

"Plan 9," I answered. "What the fuck do you want?"

There was a pause, and then a voice said, "Is Lars Dahl there?"

No one called me here. "Speaking."

I heard a laugh. "Thought so. It's me. You didn't answer at home, so I thought I'd try here."

It was Officer Brian Hoechst. Agent Brian Hoechst.

"Yeah, I'm here." I had no idea what to say. The sound of his voice hit something in me, triggering both a weird kind of happy, and the deep well of unfocused pissed off. Add that to all the questions about what he was doing at Plan 9 in the first place, and I didn't feel at all patient.

"Just checking to see if you're all right."

I kept my voice flat. "My ass hurts."

"Well, it should," he said, still sounding amused. 

I said nothing.

"Lars, seriously, are you okay? Do you have any idea how hot you were, how proud I was of you?"

I swallowed, torn between pleasure and anger. "Don't do that again."

He was quiet for a moment before he asked, "Which part?"

"Don't bring a stranger into my house with the expectation that I'll have sadomasochistic sex with him." 

"You went along with it."

"I know," I said, and rubbed my aching jaw with my free hand. "It was hot." Hot was not the only word for it. I shifted in the chair to make the bruises from the nightstick hurt again. That pain and his voice together hit something deep in me that I didn't trust, something they put there last night. Something they trained into me. He didn't say anything, so I tried to put away the thing I didn't understand to concentrate on the immediate problem of what he thought was going on at Plan 9. I asked, "Is Brian your real name?" 

"Yes." Brian said. "I told you what I am." He cut himself off. "I shouldn't have called you. I just had to make sure you were okay, and I don't have your cell phone number."

"I don't have a cell phone," I answered automatically, but my mind was elsewhere. To test my suspicions, I said, "Turner cancelled another band on us."

"Yeah?" He sounded too interested. Bingo. "What night?"

"Thursday."

"I don't think I can get down there." He sounded genuinely annoyed.

"Then come Friday," I said. "Truth or consequences."

"We both play?" he asked. "Truth from you, too?"

"What's to tell? Don't plan on getting laid." 

I hung up the phone before he could answer, and finished sweeping the floor, thinking and trying to figure out why the hell the fed was fucking me. Maybe he thought he could blackmail me into being an informant. He couldn't have come in blind, and if he was looking for blackmail material, he had to know that there was a hell of a lot more in my background than doing men, and I could give two shits if any of it were public. No, he had to be using me for something.

I couldn't figure it out, and I was never so happy to see a dance troupe come in. The distraction helped. The troupe leader hitting on me helped. Getting laid after the performance helped a whole lot. Soft, sweet pussy, warm and willing, was the perfect way to shut down the worry. Or it would have been, if I hadn't needed to keep the lights off to hide the bruises, or felt the twinge in my ass with every thrust. I rolled us over and let her ride, making sure to get her off.

In the end, she pulled off the condom, kissed me, and left with some excuse about class in the morning. 

"Leave your number," I said, hoping she'd leave her name as well. I wasn't sure I remembered it.

She was dark, willowy and delicate, with big, clear eyes. She was everything Brian was not. She shook her head. "You won't call. You weren't even here."

The door closed behind her, and I heard her car start. I stared up into the dark. She was right.


	9. What the drug does

Thursday was as bad as I feared, with frat boys trying to be cool and starting in on the regulars. My tall, freaky looks worked to break up most of it, and I only had to convince two of them to go home. Blue complained all night about Sin Fine bagging, which made her bring up the half dozen or so bands that cancelled on us in the last year. I didn't tell her about Turner. Then she stole my beer, as payment, she said.

When it was over, I herded the crowd out of the room. Trey stayed to help load out, and Blue was pretending to be passed out on the couch in the chill space. I left her alone, and got out the snow shovels. We probably owned the only ones in this part of the state, but they were great for clearing the floor after a packed show. I made a path from the stage to the door through the bottles, cans and cups people brought in, then worked my way back. I'm not sure what made me look up, but I saw Trey with his hand deeper into an amp than was required to carry it. It wouldn't have bothered me if he hadn't been looking to see if anyone noticed.

Ricky caught it, too. "What are you doing?"

Trey stood up. "Just, uh, stashing the power cord."

"Right. Go home, Trey."

The kid stood up and moved to the door, paused, and slipped out into the night.

"What do you think he was doing?" I asked Ricky, but it wasn't really a question.

"Yeah." He crouched down and reached in. "There's something taped up on the inside."

"Leave it alone," I said. I wanted to see what Trey would do.

"How did he know it was there?"

"Got me. Should we tell the singer? It's her amp."

Ricky shook his head. "We have to be careful." He walked back to the office.

I helped the drummer cart his cases out to their van and caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows. I brought the amp Trey had been messing with next, and set it next to the van, then retreated to the doorway to watch. Trey wasted no time coming out from his hiding place, and began reaching into the amp again. 

He had whatever it was in his hand within a few moments, and when I stepped out and called his name, he took one look at me and ran. I let him go, put the amp in their van and shut the door, and then turned back into the space. 

The duo stood at the door to the office, probably getting paid. I debated with myself for a long moment, then walked across the room to put a hand on the singer's shoulder. "Did you have something important taped inside your amplifier?"

Ricky shot me a look from where he sat at the desk, but waited for her answer. She looked up at my face, her painted eyebrows, smeared by sweat, pulled together in honest confusion. "That's random."

"That's Lars," Ricky said. "Random is his middle name."

"No, the Great is my middle name. King of chaos, at your service." I looked at the drummer. He didn't seem to have any idea what I was talking about either. I smiled and shrugged. 

Ricky paid them and we sent them off. I was pretty sure they were sleeping in the van. I went back to the office after locking the front door. 

"Got that bottle of bourbon?"

He shook his head. "Vodka."

"It'll have to do."

"Didn't see you on Wednesday," he said, pulling out the bottle and two relatively clean glasses. We each downed a shot.

"Didn't take long, since I'd already cleaned up for the dance group. I was gone before you got in."

He nodded. "I got back in town later than I expected."

"Beer?" I asked. I wanted to talk, but I didn't want to talk. Ricky nodded again, so I went over to the cooler by the soundboard and brought back two cans to go with the vodka. "We do all right tonight?"

"Yep." Ricky took the beer and stared at the wall.

"Trey took something out of that amp. Should we ban him from load outs?" I asked.

Ricky leaned back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. I leaned my chair against the wall, boots on the rung and beer on my knee.

After a few sips he said, "When I updated our web page with the change in bands, I checked the link to Sin Fine's website, so I looked them up."

"Yeah? How's the singer?"

"Intact. They're playing over in Charlotte tonight."

My chair legs came down with a thump. "Does he think we're stupid?"

"We have been. I have been. Almost every time Shad Turner has cancelled a band, they've been playing somewhere else, at least as much as I can figure out."

"And every time he gives us a substitute."

"And the subs usually make us money anyway," Ricky said, "so I can't really complain."

"Bait and switch."

Ricky nodded. "Any bets as to what was stashed in that amp?"

"It's a sucker bet." The presence of a DEA agent in my life made a whole lot more sense. I wondered again if he was just using me. Maybe he was a better actor than I'd given him credit for that first night. Maybe he wanted me to find out who he was. I shook my head. "What are we going to do about it?"

"I've been thinking since you asked whether we needed to use an agent. I've had a business plan cooking in the back of my mind, and this just brings it up to the front. It's pretty old fashioned to use guys like Shad Turner, but it's easy. Time to go straight to the source. Why not a website of performance spaces and bands, and match up dates on line to create a tour? More money to the bands, I bet."

"Can't be that hard," I said. "Sounds like a cool idea if you can finance the startup. You'll need servers, a good web monkey, scalable interface."

"Lars, you surprise me." I shot him a bird, and he snorted. "Money's not a problem," Ricky said. "Not any more."

"We doing better than you're telling me?"

"Inheritance," Ricky said, solidifying my idea that he was good family, slumming.

"Cool," I said. "Who died?"

"Lots of people a while ago. I had to comply with the terms of the trust to get control."

This sounded like we were veering into the territory of Gothic romance novels. "Anything you going to tell me?"

Ricky looked me in the eye. "Heck, no. But I'm not going to lose what we've built over drugs."

I thought for a minute. "What do you think Turner's going to do when you announce this plan?"

He shrugged. "What can he do? Start running his drugs the conventional way? Besides, this isn't going to be a sudden thing. It'll take time to ramp up."

"Okay," I said. "So what's the short term plan? Ban Trey?"

"Yep. We fulfill our contracts with Shad, but don't book any more. I don't want this place used for drug trafficking."

"What do we do in the time between his bookings and your hare-brained idea?"

"You think it's hare-brained?" Ricky asked, looking a little hurt.

"Not really. Just that it will take some time to get rolling, and I'm sort of attached to eating. If we have no income here, I don't get paid. If I'm going to be more broke, I might as well go back to graduate school."

"You'll get paid, Lars. Don't worry."

And in that minute, Ricky looked like he could buy and sell a dozen of me. Suddenly the name Cabot registered. He couldn't be one of those Cabots, I thought. What I said was, "About Brian." I wanted to talk about how to handle this with the DEA agent.

"Who?" Ricky said, but we were interrupted.

"What's this about Trey?" said a voice from the door. It was Blue. We'd forgotten about her.

I was not outing Brian as a federal agent in front of Blue. "Nothing," I said. "We'll deal with it." Damn. 

"You said he was banned? What for?"

"Not your business, baby Blue," I said. "It's between us and Trey, and we'll talk with him. Keep it out of the rumor mill in the meantime, okay?"

"Okay," she said. It was too easy.

"I'm serious. Leave it alone."

"I got it. I got it. You gonna give me a ride?"

I looked at Ricky. "We done here?"

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Blue followed me out to my car and got into the passenger seat as soon as I hit the remote door locks. She started to kick aside the empty cans and wrappers, gave up, and leaned back with her boots on the dashboard.

"Seatbelt," I said.

"Yes, Dad," she said, but she reached to buckle herself in.

"You'll have to give me directions." I started the car and backed out of the parking space.

"Why don't you just take me home?"

Three months ago I would have considered it. She'd either be very fun or very boring in bed, and either way it would give me blackmail material. Tonight I wanted to get her home, go take a shower, hit the bourbon, and brood.

"Your home, Blue. I'm not in the mood."

"You not in the mood because of Trey?"

Too close to the mark. Blue was never stupid. "What makes you put those two facts into one thought? I could just be tired."

She snorted. "You're never not in the mood, and you're upset about something Trey did. Two plus two."

"You're adding it up to five. You live over in the country club estates, right?"

"Not any more. I moved out of my parents' house. I'm sharing a place with people over by the art school. You're not fooling me, you know."

I turned left, the opposite direction from my house, heading toward the university. "Give it a rest, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Want a blow job at least?"

"What?" I almost wrecked the car, jerking too tight into a turn. "What is with you?"

"I don't know. I'm just fucked up and restless."

Realization dawned. "What are you on?"

"Something Trey gave me. C'mon, Lars, you're not turning narc, are you?"

That's a very good question, I thought. "What did Trey give you?"

"Ecstasy, or something like it. He called it Intensity. It's pretty intense."

"That's what had you passed out on the couch?"

"I wasn't passed out. I was dealing with the inside of my head."

I knew she'd been faking it, so it made a certain sense. "How does that leap to blowing me?"

"I want something not in my head. Please, Lars." There was no whining, no tease. She made a simple request, but there was a desperate sound behind it.

For all her mercenary behavior, she'd never asked me for something like this. "What street is your house on?" I asked, not having made up my mind.

She told me, and it was a few blocks away. We passed the old houses, what had once been professors’ mansions and now were lived in by five or six students at a time making ramshackle bedrooms out of dining rooms, and even hanging hammocks to sleep in the old butler's pantry. I parked in the short driveway, behind an old car covered with sarcastic bumper stickers, and cut off the engine. "What's going on, Blue?" 

She took my hand and put it on her breast. It was round and soft, and felt good under my fingers. "Come in, please."

It wasn't possible to say no, and not because I had her tit in my hand. There was a look in her eyes I'd never seen before, almost desperate. She needed something, and I was there. She thought I was safe. I thought about what Dee had told me, and I didn't want to leave Blue to her own devices if Intensity was the same drug.

The sex was good, rough and fun, with biting enough to leave marks and fucking hard enough for the slap of skin. When I came back from flushing the condom, she looked at the yellowing bruises on my hips and traced her fingers over them before I could lie down again. "How did you get these? They look like fingerprints." 

"Yep," I said, remembering the Sergeant's big hands, the feel of his grip, and feeling of having him and Brian using me at once. 

She compared the bruises with her hands. I could feel her fingers trembling. "No girl did that."

"Nope."

"And your ass is bruised. You're not telling, are you?"

I shook my head. 

"You going to tell him about me?"

"No." It wasn't a lie on technical grounds, since the Sergeant had put the bruises on me with his nightstick, and I wasn't planning on seeing him again. Brian was another story, but I'd told him not to plan on getting laid. I looked down at my chest. Maybe he'd never see her bite marks.

"Thanks," she said.

"For what?" 

"I needed that," she sighed. "I need more." She rolled over and rubbed her body against the sheets. "Touch me, please. I want what you had. Give me what you had to get those bruises."

"You still tripping?"

"Do you think you can, you know, again? I need to feel. More. Please."

Even after what we had just done, she sounded desperate. This drug wasn't like anything I'd done or seen before. I put my hands on her, and no matter what I did, she asked for more. I hurt her, and she begged for me to do it again. Her moans became constant, as I worked her with fingers and tongue. "Please. Please. Please," she begged.

"Please what?" I asked. "Do you want me here?" I slid a finger in and out of a very tight passage.

"Yes," she hissed.

"Ever done that before?" I started to get hard again at the idea.

"No, just please, take me there."

"You're tripping."

She pushed back against me. "Please!"

I rolled on a condom, slicked her with what I found, and wet myself with spit. I fucked her slowly while her hand worked below, and when she came again, she screamed into her pillow. I paused to let her collect herself, but she wasn't interested in that.

"Go, Lars, do it," Blue said.

It wasn't Blue on my mind as I sped up. I imagined someone else beneath me, someone broader and stronger. I'd come once already, so I had some stamina, and I took her at her word when she asked for more and harder. I heard another voice in my head echoing her words, and I fucked her until a flash of images of Brian, Brian under me and howling for it, took me over the edge. It took me a few moments to come back to myself, and I tried not to hurt her as I pulled out. It was too late. There was a trace of blood on the condom, and she whimpered.

She was lying face down when I came back from the bathroom. I sat next to her. "You okay?"

"Stay?" she said.

I didn't want to. I didn't want her to think this was the start of something, but whatever had just happened made me feel like I owed her something more. "Do you really want to see this face in the morning?"

She seemed to read my mind as she rolled over and said, "Just please don't leave me alone until this stuff wears off. That's all I ask." Her makeup was smeared with tears. She took my hand and put it between her breasts and I felt her entire body vibrating.

I lay down next to her and pulled up the blankets. "You need to talk, or touch?"

"Both." She snuggled close to me. "Maybe I need to listen. Tell me what's up with Trey."

"Not your business," I said, but she needed to hear me talk, so I talked about everything else. I told her how my mom, my brother and my dad had died, about grad school and why I left. I told her about my one serious boyfriend, back in undergrad. I talked until she fell asleep.


	10. In which Lars is cruel

Friday night Ricky and I both showed up about the same time as the bands. We had no chance to talk until sound check, when I wandered back to the board where he was listening to the drummer hit his snare and turning knobs.

"So, Shad Turner is using bands to move drugs."

"Eh-yup," Ricky said, not looking at me.

"And Trey's the local delivery guy."

"Eh-yup."

"Blue was tripping on something Trey gave her last night. He called it Intensity. Seemed like Ecstasy with a head kick. I spent the night with her."

That made Ricky look up. "Are you psychotic?"

"Not lately."

"You're seeing that cop, remember? What if he's the jealous type?"

I held onto the thought that Brian was just using me. "He's not around. She was tripping, and she needed a ground crew." I shrugged. "What?"

He looked at me for a long moment, and then leaned in to the board mic and asked the drummer to start on his kick drum. When the mic was off, he said, "You screwed her."

"A gentleman never takes a girl's anal virginity and tells."

Ricky choked, shook his head, and turned a few knobs. "Good," he said into the mic. "Play the whole kit so I can get the levels right." The drummer on stage started into a groove, punctuated with cymbal crashes and tom-tom fills. Ricky adjusted knobs and sliders on the board, shaking his head. "That is not an image I wanted in my head."

My inner twelve year old was laughing at the fact that I'd rattled him. It wasn't easy to do. "You asked," I said. "Come to think of it, so did she. Begged for it, in fact." I clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go down the steps.

"Don't be a pig, Lars." 

"Don't go all moralistic on me," I started, but then remembered that thanks to Angie, Ricky might be sensitive on the issue of sexual betrayal. "Look, for what it's worth, she was tripping hard, and if this stuff is what Deanna Robinson was talking about, it's a damn good thing she was with me. She felt like she needed it, begged for it. I was available, and a hell of a lot safer than letting her go off and find someone else. Or a whole group of someone elses. She sent me off this morning with a thank you and a let's pretend this never happened. I told her not to do it again."

Ricky seemed to relax a fraction. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Never," I said. "King of chaos, remember?" I went to get the door ready.

All in all, it was a decent night, busy enough that we made money, and I didn't have time to think. There was no sign of Trey. It wasn't until I got in my car to go home that I remembered Brian was supposed be waiting for me. 

His car was on the street, and he got out as I parked and walked toward the door. I tried not to laugh. He was wearing a polo shirt and a baseball hat with some sports logo on it. The chinos and sneakers solidified the frat boy look, which for me was a whole lot scarier than a cop. He followed me to the door, and as he moved closer I could smell beer and cigarettes. He'd been in a bar.

I let him in first, then closed the door behind us. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a dark rectangle. I held out my hand for it, and he opened it with a practiced flip before giving it to me. The name was the same, Brian Hoechst, and if it wasn't a real DEA ID, then it was a damn good forgery. I closed it and handed it back to him.

"So," he said. "Now what?" He sounded brusque, and I could tell he was covering up nerves. 

Now that I was faced with him, I wasn't sure what to say. On the drive home I'd been planning to tear into him, but there was something in the way he looked at me that said the direct approach would only make him leave. I tilted my head and looked down at him. "I usually grab a shower when I get home."

"Can I, uh," he started. 

"Join me?" I finished for him. He nodded, and I hesitated, thinking about the bite marks Blue had left on my chest. Then I decided that if the cards were going on the table, all the cards were going on the table. Plus, I needed him out of those clothes. The hat alone was gave me the creeps. "Come on."

We stripped in my room with the lights off, standing a good six feet from each other. He followed me to the bathroom and stepped in after me. It was hard to avoid touching each other, even in my big-ass claw foot tub. I washed my hair, and was surprised when he started on my back with a soapy washcloth, swiping over my subdermals hard enough that I could feel it. He crouched down to wash my ass and legs, gentle on the marks from the Sergeant's night stick, and tapped my ankle to get me to lift my foot as if I were a horse. I wondered where he'd learned it, and if he still thought of me the way he left me last week, as a good dog. The idea was not a turn-on. I turned and he washed up my thighs. I wasn't hard, and he swiped over my groin as impersonally as the rest of it, but then stopped, tracing slowly over the old bruises on my hips. When he stood up, he saw the bites on my chest.

"Those are new." There was an edge to his voice.

"Blue," I said.

He looked surprised, then snorted once. "She told me she liked you too much to ever want to hook up with you." He scrubbed over the marks, but they didn't go away.

"It wasn't a typical hook up," I said. I explained how it had happened, with no apologies, and when I said the name of the drug, the washcloth stopped moving.

"Intensity," he repeated. "Know much about it?"

"First I heard of the name." I wasn't going to tell him about Dee and the sorority girls on campus, and I wanted to know how much he knew. "I was going to ask you."

"So she had a head trip followed by a need for body sensation?"

"Pretty much."

"That's the usual experience," Brian said, nodding, washing my arm. "The late stage of the trip can drive people to do some very stupid things. There was a case in New York of a girl walking into the dark places of Central Park, looking to be raped, just for the physical experience. That's an extreme example, but that stuff takes risky behaviors to a new level." He sounded like a DEA officer making a report. Then he added, his voice soft, a bit strained, "She was lucky to have you."

It was the last thing I expected him to say. "Wash your back?" I asked. 

He handed me the cloth, and I added more soap, then scrubbed his broad back and his ass. I slowed, trailing my fingers over him, remembering what I had been thinking while I was with Blue. I reached around to soap his chest, then rubbed down with a slick hand, through the hair on his belly. He was broader, more solid than anything I'd ever had, and with him always in control, I'd never been able to touch him like this.

He turned his head to give me access to his neck, moving his hips as well. "Oh, Jesus," he said. "I thought you said I wasn't getting laid."

"I lie." I whispered into his neck, and he shivered under my tongue.

"Always?"

"Like a rug." I slid my hands up his chest and across his shoulders, then down his flanks. He felt good, muscled and hard under my hands. I went for it, and stroked him, soap-slick. "Did you think about me this week?" I asked. "Did you jack off thinking about me?" 

"Yeah," he breathed. He was close, fast. 

"What did you think about?"

"Your mouth. You sucking me with your hair slicked back, none of that stuff on your eyes. Just you."

I stopped moving. "Your sex dog?" I couldn't let him put me in that slot.

He shook his head, his brush cut tickling my cheek. "When you told me not to wear a uniform, I started wondering what it would be like without the games."

"You don't like the games?" I asked, sliding my hand up and down once more, and then stopping.

"Oh, Jesus," he said.

"Your friends at church know how you pray?" I laughed. If he thought he was using me, I had every intention of making it blow up in his face. I was going to wreck him. I slid my other hand back up his chest to his nipples.

He groaned, then said, "I like the games. Just never done them before."

"Ever done this before?" I asked sliding my hands across his chest, playing his nipples again, stroking everything I could reach.

He shook his head. 

I'd thought not. "You suck cock like a pro and you fuck like a dream," I said. "You've done something before."

He didn't answer, but he was trembling under my hands, leaning into my body. I put a thumb under his chin and turned his head up for a kiss, and his mouth opened under me, hungry and answering. I slid my hand back down, and he came before I even needed to breathe.

I held his weight with my arms, letting him lean on me as he panted. I kissed his neck and whispered, "Just how big is your closet, Brian?"


	11. In which Brian comes clean

I almost dropped him as he slumped, a low groan in his chest, and my first thought was that I'd broken him. I started to let go, but he held my arms, keeping me close. "Yeah," he said. It was simple agreement.

"Let me guess," I said into his hair. "Captain of the football team in a small town. Probably dated the homecoming queen or at least a cheerleader. Found out about back rooms and cruise spots in college, and rarely ever talked to the people you fucked, or sucked off, or who got you off. I would even bet you're dating some girl from your church right now who thinks you're a gentleman for not pressuring her for sex." I felt cruel, and I enjoyed it.

He took a deep breath. "Yeah. Pretty much it."

"But you like this," I said, kissing his neck and running my hands across his shoulders, down his chest. There was no way he could miss that distinct pressure on the small of his back. I wanted him, but I ignored it.

Eventually he said, "Yeah. I like it." I didn't answer. It was his turn to talk, or not, and eventually he said, "That first night, when I could just touch you, do anything to you, and watch you react for me…" He trailed off, then added quietly, "You're right." 

"About what?" 

"I've never had anything like this. I don't want to give it up." 

Holy crap, I thought. I heard control in his voice, but what he was controlling, I couldn't be sure. Either way, there was a chance this could veer in to closet-boy confession land. I let the water beat down on us for a minute, then said, "Let's get out."

We didn't speak as we took turns under the showerhead, and I sent him out first, and turned a blast of cold water on myself before I felt ready to follow him out. I handed him a towel, and in the bedroom I pulled out two pairs of black boxer briefs and a couple of T-shirts. No way could I have this conversation with him wearing that stupid polo shirt.

"Want a drink?" I asked after we were dressed.

"Might help."

"Sit down," I said, indicating the living room with my head, and went to the kitchen to pour a couple of bourbons. There were a few things I had to work out in my own head. He acted like he was trying not to be jealous when he saw Blue's bite marks. If this was just sex, something to play out fantasies, he shouldn't have cared. If he was just trying to manipulate me, he shouldn't have cared. And I had no idea what I thought about it. If it was manipulation, I could deal with it. If it was just sex, that was fine, too. If he thought he had feelings for me, that was just weird. 

I took the drinks back to Brian, and found him sitting on the chair. I handed him his glass and sprawled on the battered loveseat. "Business first, or personal?"

"That's part of the problem," he said. "They're hard to separate."

Feelings it was, then. Crap. "Lay it out," I said, "starting from why you walked into my club in the first place."

He took a breath. "This new drug's been making the rounds in the bigger cities. It's a designer variant of Ecstasy, but the chem labs aren't quite sure how it does what it does. There are a lot of compounds in the pills, and they haven't figured out everything that's active. We don't even know if it's a real design change, or if an Ecstasy lab has a contaminant, and the street has re-named it."

"Intensity."

"Yeah." Brian looked at me sharply, nodded once, and continued, "And like I said, it's caused some people to get hurt. Blue was lucky she had you with her."

I took a sip, leaving my nose buried for a moment in the smell of whisky. Lucky it was me? It was almost like Ricky saying I was a gentleman. I wanted to down the shot, but I didn't dare have this conversation drunk. "I guess you need to know what I saw last night." I told him about Trey fishing a package out of an amp, and the singer seeming to have no clue. "I don't think she was that good an actress," I finished.

He looked thoughtful. "It fits what we thought was happening. They were a substitute band, right?"

"Yep. Shad Turner, put them in to replace a band the he said had to cancel due to injury, but the cancelled band was playing up in Charlotte."

"That fits what we heard in Orlando and Atlanta."

"So, why are you fucking me?" I asked. Brian looked up, his face a controlled mask, which I think meant I'd surprised him. "You're after Turner, right? Anything you do with me could blow the case, if you get him." I didn't ask if he was trying to compromise me.

He looked down, then bent and rested his head on his hands, which were holding his glass. "That's why it's all confused."

"Put it into words. Untangle it." Brian didn't know I'd served a stint as a peer counselor in college. All the old tricks applied here. He sighed loudly. I waited.

I tell people I bore easily, but it's not true. I can entertain myself for hours. It's a survival skill for working the door on slow nights, and who knows how many political theories I'd spun out for my own entertainment, watching the shifting alliances among the various tribes of punks, Goths, and other weirdos at Plan 9. In the first few months of working the door, I'd cover my left arm with equations to try to describe it, but eventually I figured out it was keeping me crazy and switched to low dose Ecstasy for a year.

I passed the time waiting for him to talk by thinking over what he said in the shower, replaying our scenes and looking for what he might not have known he was telling. I thought about whether I could keep Plan 9 from being hauled into a drug investigation any more than it already was. Being victims of federal attention held a certain cachet, but helping federal agents would kill us as a business if the word got out. 

As my thoughts wandered, I watched Brian wrestling with something inside himself. When he finally looked up, I was looking at the cop. That would be easier to deal with than a closet case with feelings. 

He put his glass on the table. "I'll be honest. Since you'd made me as law enforcement I didn't know what to do. Intensity used to be a big city drug but it's moving in to smaller towns. The good news is that it can be a lot easier to find the players in a smaller city and start tracing back up the line. We thought you might be one of the players." He sighed, more of a snort, really. "I did a lot of checking on you." His elbows were on his knees as he leaned forward. "We had you profiled before I even came the first time. Not just you," he added. He must have seen my expression change. "All the owners and employees of the clubs."

That didn't make it feel any better. "So, what did you learn?"

"The facts? Barely kept your scholarship to graduate from Emory. Came here for graduate school in political science because it was the only program that accepted you. You did better on your Master's than anyone expected, publishing a book that earned you a free ride for the PhD program and some media attention. After an incident no one will talk about, you threw it all over to open Plan 9 with Richard Cabot four years ago, and you only have one year left to turn in your dissertation before your time expires." He looked up from his recitation. "The conclusion was that you're brilliant, but lazy unless properly motivated."

"Just shows you how much those profiles are worth." I said. Brian's recitation pissed me off. Writing an entire book for my Master's thesis had not been the act of a lazy man, and I hadn't thrown it all over for Plan 9. Plan 9 had saved my sorry ass.

He grinned, ignoring, or missing, my annoyance. "Now you know how I felt after you nailed me in the shower, except she was the captain of the cheerleaders, and it was the disappointment of her high school career that she didn't get elected Homecoming Queen. She gave me my first blow job on prom night."

"My boyfriend was captain of the football team? Shoot me now," I groaned, but it was for effect, for humor, irony, and anger. 

His face sobered. "Boyfriend?" The word did not come easily out of his mouth, and I let myself smile. I'd used it deliberately to provoke him. I was pissed off. He said, "I didn't think you did that. We didn't find anything to indicate a long-term relationship with a man. Your sexual profile came down to opportunistic bisexual."

"Then you missed one," I said, tasting bile as I realized just how thoroughly they'd checked me out. "You want to be number two? You going to introduce me to the family, ask me to church?"

It was the wrong thing to say, even in sarcasm, which meant it was the right thing for my purposes. A man that deep in the closet takes his straight trappings pretty seriously. If he was a believer, then the whole gay thing held a tangle of self-loathing and denial. He didn't say anything for a long time, and I almost expected him to dress and leave, but then he surprised me. He said, "I had a feeling I'd like it. I mean the sex. With you. And it would be an easy way to find out if you were the local contact for the group moving this stuff. But…”

One thing for sure was that he was in a very bad position, having any kind of relationship with me. "Why did you risk it?" I asked.

"Coming over that night was an impulse, partly because I thought it was hot, and partly to try to find a way to salvage this investigation, since you'd made me as law enforcement."

I didn't say anything for a few moments as we looked into each other's eyes. Several facts slotted into order. Then I said, "Bullshit." Brian sat back, and I leaned forward. "You're not from around here, right? You're up near DC?" Brian nodded. "So, to wear an old uniform, you had to drive at least five hours one way to get it." He sat back, his face blank, but I could see I'd surprised him. "It was a deliberate choice," I said, looking directly into his eyes.

He dropped his gaze to his hands. "It's one thing to read about how smart you are. It's another thing to be subjected to it."

I wasn't sure how to react to that. I mean, it fed my ego, but Christ on a pogo stick, what the hell was he talking about? "What kind of game are you playing?"

Brian didn't look up. "Might as well tell you. I figured you'd like having that kind of power over me, but if you used it, if you outed me, the power would be gone. It was a calculated risk." He looked up. I tried not to look smug. Turned out my first analysis was correct. "And I thought I could make it good enough for you, so you'd have two reasons not to out me." 

Bringing in the Sergeant for that scene last weekend might have been Brian's equivalent of a dozen roses. I snorted at the image, and asked, "And the disappearing acts? What is it psychologists say? Intermittent rewards are the most effective?"

He tilted his head slightly as if conceding, but he said, "I have a job up there, you know."

"And a girlfriend, and church on Sunday." I took a sip, then pushed again. "Plus, you started coming only when Turner had switched bands on us. Noticed the pattern."

He snorted and shook his head, then reached for his drink. He downed it, took a breath, and then talked to the glass. "Do you want to stop?" I looked at him, trying to read his body language. He was tense, shoulders pulled in a little, self-protective, but still in cop mode. 

"Do you?" I asked. Whatever answer he gave me, I was going to have to figure out if it was what he really wanted, or what he thought he should say that he wanted in order to manipulate me into doing something else.

He sat there for several minutes, not moving, until he put the glass down and sat up, still tense. "It's up to you."

So, he was handing over control? I doubted it. "Have you already figured out my answer?"

"What?" He looked surprised. "No. It's your call."

"What if my call is to kick you out and let everyone know what you've been doing over here?"

"I don't think you'd do it. Not unless I—" He stopped, looking for a word. "Not unless I screwed up."   
As he said it, I watched the cop mask fall away. He looked like he meant what he said, but I wasn't sure what it actually meant.

"Screwed up how? By misjudging me, or by doing something to piss me off?" I looked at him, "Or by not manipulating me as well as you thought?"

He sat back and turned away. "I deserved that."

"I've obeyed you, I have been on my fucking knees for you, only because I wanted it. You think you can control me? Think again."

He snorted and shook his head, still not looking at me. "No, I figured that one out pretty quick." He dug into one palm with the thumb of the other hand, like he was trying to work out a muscle cramp. "It's like I said. I wanted it to be good for you so you'd want me to come back, so you'd have a reason not to out me. I didn't expect to want to come back."

So he'd come into this intending to manipulate things, and instead we went places he wasn't ready for and found out just how much he wanted it. It was going to take me a while to digest the fact that he was probably telling me the truth. I threw him a curve ball. "Everyone at Plan 9 knows you're a cop."

Brian looked up, stunned. "How?"

"First time you came in, I passed the word. I thought you were one of the locals looking for an excuse to shut us down. Hell, I even took a beer away from some skinhead so you wouldn't get us on underage drinking, even though we don't sell the beer."

"All this time?"

"All this time."

He laughed, once. "No wonder your place seemed so clean." He swallowed. "So if they know I'm a cop, do they already know we're…?" He gestured between us, a grim look on his face.

"No, you were right about that. Only Ricky knows, and he wouldn't tell you what color the sky was, if it didn't suit him. He thinks I'm insane, by the way."

"In general?"

"No. Well, probably. For fucking you, anyway."

"So, you don't want to stop?" 

I still didn't know what answer he wanted me to give. Hell, I didn't know what answer I wanted to give. I took another sip of bourbon and said, "Kind of the best sex of my life."

"I'll keep it good for you. I promise." I looked up at his tone of voice. He was trying not to show it, but I got the feeling he was desperate for it to continue. 

I thought some more about Trey and the drugs, and what Blue might have done if I hadn't been there for her. I lobbed another curve ball. "I won't get in the way of your investigation, but I won't help you. Ricky isn't going to book with Shad Turner any more, so we've got about two months of bands. You have to assume that the bands have no clue."

"I can't do that."

"Trust me on this one. I'll tell Ricky not to ban Trey from load-outs and you can work something out to catch him after he's picked up the package. Remember, he knows you're a cop, so you may have to bring in someone else."

Brian got up and held out a hand. "Can we work it out in the morning?" he asked.

I looked at my glass, then downed the bourbon for courage. He wanted to stay the night. I put the glass down, stood, and let him pull me up. "You want to give me something I want? My turn," I said. "I'm driving."

He stepped back. "Look, I don't think I want to—" 

I cut him off. "Not that." He thought I meant for him to submit to me, but that wasn't what I was after. "Just follow my lead, okay? Trust me. I'll make it good for you," I said, trying not to sound like I was mocking him, even if I was. Maybe I wasn't.

He ignored it, or didn't notice, and stepped in close, sliding his hand around to the small of my back, and leaning his forehead on my shoulder. I could feel him nod. It was his version of giving over, and because he couldn't see me, I smiled.

I led him to the bedroom, and we pulled off the shorts and T-shirts. "Lie down," I said. "No, face down." Brian rolled over, and I reached for the massage oil. I rubbed a bit on my hands, sat on his hips, and started working on his back.

"Oh, Jesus," he sighed.

"Like that, huh? Don't tell me no one's ever done this before."

He was quiet for a moment. "Smaller hands, not as strong."

I smiled to myself, but didn't say anything, speaking with my fingers up his neck and down his spine. While he melted under me, I thought more about what was going on here.

The stakes were high, and all of it tangled together. I did not like Plan 9 being used by that lying bastard Shad Turner as a mail drop for drugs. I hoped Brian could shut it down without Trey going to jail, because Trey was just a stupid kid. I didn't know what I could tell Dee, or if telling her Plan 9 was involved would screw up any chance of getting me back in her good graces. I hoped Ricky's new business model worked. I wanted to understand what was happening with Brian. 

I had no idea what I wanted, or how he would handle it if we had something more than the officer and freak relationship. Me with a cop? With someone who could wear a baseball cap without irony? No, I was still suspicious. I wanted to fuck him, but just as much, I wanted to fuck with him.

I watched the clock, and after ten minutes moved off him, got more oil, and went to work on his legs. 

He almost kicked me in the face. "Sorry. Ticklish."

I pressed harder, and that seemed to work. When I finished his legs I worked on his glutes, taking my time, but eventually he started to arch back toward me, and I started to tease, and then slip my finger in. But this was about more than getting him ready to take me. I slipped both hands up, over his back, and lay on top of him. He smelled like the oil, with the added musk of clean sweat. His chest rose and fell under me faster than I expected, but it was where I wanted him—hungry.

I asked, "You doing all right?"

"Yeah."

"Is this what you want?" I rubbed my hips against him, letting him feel I was ready for it. "Or are you just giving me something more that you think I want, that you think will keep me quiet?"

He shook his head. "Can we please not talk?" he said.

I smiled into his neck. By not answering, he told me something. "Sure."

"That's talking."

"Shut up, yourself."

"If you're driving, drive."

I bit his neck, then slid down his body, finishing what I'd started. I may have been the first person in his ass, but he knew what he wanted. I reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a condom, showing it to him before I got myself ready. All I could think was that he wanted me. He wanted me like this. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah. Just, go ahead."

"You want me to fuck you?" I asked. I wanted to make him say it.

He hesitated. I saw his throat move as he swallowed, and then he nodded. Good enough.

And when I gave him what he asked for, a sound came out of his mouth that I hadn't heard before, and I thought I'd heard every sex noise he could make. It was better than any fantasy. Make it good for him? I owned him. I was the first person to have him, and every noise was mine. In the end, I collapsed across his back, and he lay down beneath me, reaching for my hand and bringing it up to his mouth to kiss and bite. It was a languid moment, stark contrast to the way I had just taken him apart. I drank it in, paying attention to every inch where we touched—shoulders, hips, arms, down our legs. Whatever it might mean, whoever was manipulating whom? For a moment it didn't matter.

It couldn't last, and I got up, checking the condom out of habit and finding it torn down one side. There must have been enough oil there to weaken the latex. I put one hand on his back as I pulled off the shreds. "It broke."

"It's not like I'll get pregnant."

"Brian," I started.

"You get tested every six months like clockwork," he said. "I'm not worried. If you turned up positive, you wouldn't keep getting tested."

He hadn't been kidding about profiling all the club owners. Afterglow dampened my annoyance. "Is there anything about me you don't know?"

He rolled over, and I couldn't read the expression on his face. "I don't know why you really dropped out of grad school. I don't know why you let me bareback. I don't know why you have the subdermals."

I didn't plan on enlightening him. "Still feel at a disadvantage here."

"Knowing about you isn't knowing you." He reached up to my face, but instead of a caress, he grabbed my eyebrow rings and pulled me down for a short kiss. "That was amazing."

"It can get even better."

"You're going to kill me if it can get better than that."

"You'll survive."

I got up and went to the bathroom, dealt with necessities, and came back with a towel for Brian. He was already asleep. I wiped him down, and looked at him for a long moment, considering whether or not I should wake him up and kick him out. In the end I crawled into bed, thinking I'd learn something about him if he was still there in the morning.


	12. Score one for the freak

I'm not sure which woke me, the smell of coffee or Brian's mouth. There was a mug steaming on the bedside table and Brian's head between my legs. I must have moaned, or something, and he stopped, crawled up my body, and kissed me. He'd already showered and shaved. Hell, he'd probably already done his morning workout. "Good morning," he said.

As I woke up, it hit me that I didn't expect him to still be here, and I wasn't sure what it meant. I glanced at the clock. "It's afternoon." 

"It's relative."

I could feel him hard against my stomach, and I pushed up against him, wrapping my legs around his. If he was here, I might as well get laid. "I know what I'd like you to do with that. Fuck me like this."

He pulled back and looked at me, but didn't say anything. He didn't seem to want to do it, maybe because it was too much like straight sex, but he moved to sit beside me when I reached for the lube. I got myself ready for him while he watched. He reached to the nightstand drawer for a condom, but I stopped what he was doing by putting the lube in his hand. He could have pushed me face down, but he gave me what I asked for. Even sex is politics. Sometimes in negotiations, it works to put your opponent in the position of being able to humiliate you. It gives them a sense of power with their decisions, and nine times out of ten they won't take the opportunity, just be satisfied that they could have. 

A few minutes into it, he stopped.

"Why do you let me bareback? You had no reason to trust me that first night."

This was not how I'd imagined having this conversation. "I didn't care."

"You let that happen often?"

"I don't do guys that often."

"You said last night you lied," he said. "Are you lying now?"

"No," I said, and that was truth. "We going to talk or fuck?"

"Why did you use one with me?"

Christ, but his timing sucked. I swallowed, and said, "I've trained myself to prefer wearing them. I don't give a shit what happens to me, but I'm not screwing up someone else. Would you please just move, or do I have to start calling you officer?"

He closed his eyes at that, and moved enough to make me hiss, but he said. "You're lying. You do give a shit about what happens to you, or you would have put your mouth on the Sergeant's gun."

Maybe he had a point. "Can we talk about this later?" I asked. But then a thought struck me. "Why did you bareback?" 

He sounded as irritated at my questions as I'd been at his. "I know I'm negative. There was no risk to you, but don't ever do something like that again." Brian started to move slowly.

"So it's okay if I fuck other people?" I wasn't sure what answer I wanted to hear.

"I can't tell you what to do." His eyes closed. 

"You can ask." That was me pushing him to see how he'd react. I knew he'd be going back to that girlfriend at church, and he knew I knew it.

He closed his eyes, and said, "Please don't let anyone else ride you bare."

It was an easy promise. "Sure thing, cowboy," I said, and watched him. His face was tightening, his abs flexing, and his arms starting to tremble. He looked so needy and hot.

"Jesus, Lars. Oh, God." He put his head down and slowed down, damn him. "Lars," he said again, rearing back and, finally, shutting up and giving over, staying deep in me as I stroked myself off.

Eventually I said, "Not bad, but we're going to have to practice that one."

"I'm okay with that," he said. I opened my eyes, and he was looking down at me, smiling, his face open. "You're so beautiful in the middle of it."

"I look like Goofy," I groused. I wasn't sure what to think of the expression on his face.

He fell next to me on the bed, laughing. "Shower?"

"Sure." I grabbed the mug of coffee he'd brought off the nightstand and walked to the bathroom, chugging. It was sweet, and I would have preferred milk. Still, for never having seen me drink coffee, it was a decent try.

What surprised me was how laid back it all was. We scrounged breakfast in our shorts, not talking about anything important, and drank more coffee trading pieces of the morning paper. It was downright domestic. I liked it, but the unfinished business was still there. 

"You want the sports?" he asked, waving the section toward me as I closed the Op-Ed pages.

"Never read it," I said, and with that, all delays were over. "So."

"So, what?"

"Plan 9. Shad Turner. Intensity." Me, I thought, but didn't say it. "What's your next step?"

"I have an idea," Brian said.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Do tell."

"What you said last night, about bringing in someone else, it makes sense. We're a multi-agency team. There's an F.B.I. desk agent working with us. She's a rookie, but she knows the scene. She was part of it in college. In fact, she was a regular at Plan 9."

"Yeah? Who would that be?"

"Angela Grissom is her name. Do you remember her?"

"Angie?" I asked. "Straight, reddish hair? Tall and skinny?" Inside I was thinking, _Please say no. Please let it be someone else_.

"So you know her. Good."

"Everyone who was around three years ago knows her, and I mean in the biblical sense."

Brian blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah. You weren't thinking of sending her back to Plan 9, were you? There will be two lines forming inside of five minutes, one of guys wanting blow jobs and one of people who want to kick her ass her for what she did to Ricky." 

"What did she do to him?"

"More like who didn't she do when she was supposedly with him."

"Oh," Brian said again. "That bad?"

"That bad." I didn't feel the need to elaborate.

"Did you do her?"

"Fuck, no," I said. Something about her had bugged me from the beginning, and finding out she had joined the F.B.I. was just the cherry on a pile of whacked-out cream. I couldn't wait to tell Ricky.

Brian's head was in a completely different space. "But if she showed up, no one would suspect her of being part of an investigation, right?"

"Probably not," I admitted. 

"Can you help us come up with a plausible reason she'd be back?"

"I'm not helping you, Brian. I won't get in your way, but other than not banning Trey, I can't be a part of this. She knows the territory. She can come up with her own damn cover story."

"It's happening in your club. Don't you care? You saw what happened to Blue on that shit. Do you want it on the street?" I didn't tell him it was on campus, too. Dee wanted this resolved without bringing the university into it. Brian looked earnest, all-American, and nothing like either my officer or the man who an hour ago had fucked me into the mattress. He looked like an agent interviewing a reluctant witness. I didn't like it.

"I can't help you," I said. "If anyone ever found out, it would blow every shred I have of credibility with the kids that pay money to walk in our door. You're talking about my livelihood, here."

Brian started to protest, but I shook my head. He slumped back in the chair and looked pointedly around my house. The furnishings were of the "found" and thrift store variety, and he didn't say what he was obviously thinking. Instead he said, "You could finish your dissertation and move to the DC area. Lots of work for political scientists there."

He's got to be kidding, I thought, but he looked earnest. "Don't fuck with me," I said. "Are you asking me to come live with you and a white picket fence? Have you looked at me recently?" I flicked my eyebrow rings to make the point.

He shrugged. "You got those after dropping out of school, and the subdermals from a physician in Biloxi the same year. They can come out."

Crap, what didn't he know? If he knew that, then he probably knew how my family died. I went low. "Right, and you're going to come out to your colleagues and superiors at the agency, and it'll be all hearts, flowers, and celebrating diversity?"

He shut his eyes. Score one for the freak.

After a few seconds he got up and walked to the bedroom. I heard him dress, and he came out wearing the clothes he'd shown up in, down to the stupid ball cap. "I brought you something." He put a cell phone next to me on the loveseat. "My number's programmed in. It's pre-paid."

I looked up at him, calmer, but still angry. "I'm not your girlfriend. I'm your bit on the side, the gay side. You know, the one you have to keep secret."

He took a breath, but nodded, once. "I don't know how to do this."

No shit, I thought. We should never have stepped out of the officer and freak roles. "I'm not your informant, either." 

"What—" he started, but didn't finish the question. We stared at each other for a few moments. "I need to go."

"You coming in tonight?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Heading back up to Virginia. You've got locals playing tonight, so no chance of catching Trey." He gestured toward the phone sitting next to me. "Call me if anything comes up."

"I'm not helping you," I said.

"I know, but you said you won't get in my way, either. Don't tell Rick about Angie, okay?" 

I nodded.

He turned and walked out the door, and I leaned my head back on the couch for a few minutes. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Maybe Brian wasn't an enemy, but since he was investigating things at Plan 9, better to keep him close. 

There was the stack of the last few months of The Economist magazines under the table, unread. I picked one up, and got sucked in, digging further back in the pile of issues to find context beyond the six words of international news each week in our local paper. I was so behind, and it felt like I was shaking the rust out of my brain with every article I read. By the time I'd made it through four issues, I'd missed lunch and it was past time for dinner.

It was work, and it felt good.


	13. Typical night at Plan 9

"And you know," the girl said, "it wasn't like I meant anything by it, but she wouldn't even listen when I said I was sorry—"

I got up from the stool and stepped out to the sidewalk, stretching and leaving her behind. She followed me, the sound of her monologue more distinguishable as we moved away from the noise of the band. I looked down at her. "The drama is over. You can let it go."

"But I'm just trying to tell you that this whole thing wasn't my fault."

 _My kingdom for a drunk frat boy, or a pissed off skinhead_. They were straightforward to deal with, and this Lolita with the electrical tape pseudo bondage was getting on my nerves. She'd only been here a few times, and I didn't know her name yet. I looked down the street. "I don't care."

"But—" 

"Let me make myself more clear. I don't give a shit. The only reason I broke up your little cat fight was because you were upstaging the band." The middle act had been The Fifth Quadrant, and I liked those guys. They were college students who made bad math puns in their lyrics. This Lolita had made a crack to a college girl, probably a friend of the band, and the girl hadn't taken it well. At least, that was the story from the Lolita's point of view. I suspected it was more stupid than that, and all her fault.

She sputtered at me for a moment, before turning to go back inside. I stepped ahead of her and blocked the door. "Go home."

"I paid my cover." 

She tried to dodge under my arm, and I stepped in front of her. "Go home." She tried to get around me again, and I continued to block her. I knew better than to put a hand on her, so I just used my body to try to fill the doorway. Then she started to hit me and scream. The dozen kids out on the sidewalk turned to look, and some started toward us.

The timing sucked for a police cruiser to turn down our street.

Some of the kids on the sidewalk melted into the spaces between buildings and into the parking lot, and others didn't move. They knew the drill. The stupid girl was still screaming at me, and when she raised her fists to hit me in the chest again, I gave in and grabbed her wrists. She started kicking me, so I straightened my arms to get her boots out of range, but she ended up tripping and falling on her ass. 

The cruiser parked in front of the plumbing supply store down the street, and a couple of uniformed policemen walked over. I didn't move, but as soon as she saw them, she started screaming again. "He pushed me down! He assaulted me! He hurt me!"

"Good evening, officers," I said, as soon as they were close enough to hear without me having to shout over her noise. They were nearly interchangeable in their uniforms and hats. I didn't look for any way to tell them apart. I couldn't care less.

One of them bent over to offer the Lolita a hand, and she stood, a string of electrical tape hanging where it had come unwrapped from her bicep. Both cops' eyes were firmly on the shelf of boob sticking out on top of her cheap corset. The other cop tore his gaze off the display of flesh and bad taste and said, "What's going on here?"

She started to yell again about how I'd hurt her for no good reason. When she wound down I said, "She started a fight inside. I broke it up and won't let her back in."

"Is that true?" he asked her. 

The girl started up. "No. She just took something I said the wrong way, and then wouldn't even accept an apology, and…" 

I tuned her out, and glanced over to the kids on the sidewalk, a huddle of black clothes and dyed hair. They'd all hidden their beers, and most were trying not to look like they were watching what was going on. I wished I could get inside and signal the band that there were cops here. I backed toward the door, hoping that they'd move closer to talk to me, and someone inside would see them and pass the word. 

It worked. One of the cops stepped closer and asked, "Is she sober enough to drive home?"

"I don't know. I think so." We don't sell, so it's not like they could get us for over serving, but they had some sort of "disorderly house" law they'd tried on us twice before. Better not to push it. 

"Well, if you didn't push her down, she tripped. Not a good sign."

"I don't know about you," I said, "but I'd have a hard time walking backward in those shoes." I nodded toward her feet, where she was teetering on vinyl boots with five-inch heels. She was still railing at the other cop, who glanced over and pointedly rolled his eyes. "I was just trying to get her far enough away from me that she couldn't get me in the shins with those things." The cop next to me looked skeptical. "When have you ever had a complaint about me being rough?"

He grimaced and shrugged. I knew what the answer was. "I'm going to take a walk," the cop talking to me said. He walked down toward the kids hanging out on the sidewalk. I couldn't hear what he said to them, but most were civil, except for the vampire chick, who was stupid enough to glower at him from under her eyebrows. He spoke directly to her, and she didn't answer. Stupid.

The cop walked back to his partner, and touched his arm. He looked relieved to have a reason to turn away from the Lolita, and I heard him say something about a possible code. I recognized the number—drugs. 

I walked past them to the vampire chick, trying to recall her actual name. It came to me. "Gina, you've been coming here long enough to know not to fuck with the cops." She looked at me, expression malevolent and blank, all at once. At first I was worried that her pupils were dilated, but when I put my flashlight in her eyes, they contracted and she flinched. It was just the dark. "Be nice, or I'll let them haul you off for suspecting that you're tripping." It was the kind of speech I'd given a thousand times, and I was bored with it.

"I'm not," she said, trying to sound dark and evil.

I rolled my eyes, my patience waning. "Well, you're not going to convince them with that act. Try again."

I went back to the cops. One was on his radio, getting ready to call in backup for the drug code. I shook my head. "It's young and stupid drama. I checked her eyes, and she's acting. Try talking to her again."

They looked at me, annoyed, but one of them walked over to the vampire chick. She smiled at him, lips closed, hiding her fangs, and this time when the cop asked her questions, she answered, even pulling out ID when asked. My gut unknotted, and I hadn't even realized I was tense. The other cop escorted the Lolita to her car, which gave me a chance to signal the band and Ricky. When they both came back, I said, "Care to come in for a tour?" They glanced at each other. "You're welcome to take a walk through."

They nodded, and I stepped aside to let them in. I watched from the door as they strolled through the crowd, chests out and swaggering in the full cop walk that Brian couldn't completely lose. No one got in their way, and they went all the way back to the chill space, back by the bathrooms. I watched one of them point out us and them. They took their time on the way back to the door, and I stepped back across the broad sidewalk, looking at Plan 9 from their eyes.

Above the door and the one big window was a long sign that Ricky and I had painted. It said Plan 9 in large blue letters, plain and stark, and I'd always been glad Ricky hadn't let me paint planets and flying saucers on it. The painted cinderblock was dull beige, the windows covered with rusting wire mesh. The walls were slightly lighter in color up to the height of a teenager from where the kids leaned on the building and took away the grime on their black trench coats and cheap leathers. It was dingy, seedy-looking, and I loved it.

The knot of kids that had been there when the cops pulled up was gone, their beers with them. That meant I'd have to clean the alley and the parking lot tonight, too. I walked back to the door, chucking a couple of empty cans in the trash along the way. The cops had stopped just inside, waiting for me, but not leaving the building. "Everything okay?" I asked.

"Fire exit?"

I pointed at the large garage door in the side wall. It opened to the wide alley rather than the parking lot we shared with the auto parts place, which meant it was probably put in before the building next door. "It's unlocked during shows. We've been inspected, officer, and all the licensing is in place."

"Kind of a mess out here," the other said, looking at the bottles and cans on the street and sidewalk.

"Drive by in the morning, and it'll all be gone," I said. I'd said it fifty times to a hundred uniforms. Odds were that these two had heard it before.

They nodded. "All right. Good night," one of them said, and they started back to their cruiser.

"Come back any time." I kept the annoyance out of my voice. There wasn't anything unusual about it. Uniformed officers stopped by every month or so, and our attitude was always the same. We warned the kids and invited the cops in. Tonight, though, it hit me wrong. Everything was hitting me wrong.

They sat in the car for a few more minutes, but there were no kids on the street, so they drove off.

When the night was over, I shoveled up the cans and bottles inside, picked them up from the curbs outside, and stood at the dumpster, tossing them in one by one to hear the glass break. Ricky came out with one of the trash cans from inside. "So. Bored again?"

"That, too." I listened for the next crash, then threw in two bottles together. "This job uses about three percent of my brain."

Ricky threw in a few bottles before he answered. "I wondered when you were going to realize that." When I didn't say anything he asked, "What did the cops want this time?"

"The usual. Remember that cat fight during second set?"

"Caught a bit of it. You worked your usual magic before it got anywhere."

"I accidentally knocked that girl on her ass outside. They saw it. She was yelling and blaming me and that sorority girl."

"You handled the cops as usual, though. Nice work." I looked to see if he was patronizing me. Ricky rarely paid compliments. His face was neutral, and he pitched in a few bottles in rapid succession. 

"They thought Gina was tripping. Gina with the teeth," I added, before he could ask me to remind him. 

"She bite anyone?"

"No, I told her I'd ban her next time she threatened someone." I threw a bottle too hard, and it went across the dumpster. This conversation was only using three percent of my brain, too. As I went to retrieve it, I said, "She wasn't tripping, but the other night a couple of the skinheads were pretty fucked up. They were ready to kick Trey's ass the next night, and were covered with hickeys. Trey said they'd given them to each other."

"Yeah? They don't seem the type."

"It doesn't matter when you're on that stuff. Remember that night I took Blue home? She was tripping on something she got from Trey. Those two skins may have, you know, done each other because they were both on that stuff."

"You think that's what Trey's moving with the bands?"

I nodded. "It's got a name. Intensity."

We threw in a few more bottles before Ricky said, "And that guy you've been seeing? The cop?"

"D. E. A." I said each letter clearly. 

Ricky just nodded, like it made sense, but then he said, "And a rare rational choice for you."

I stopped mid-throw. "What?!"

"You're not usually as Machiavellian as you like think you are, but this time I'm impressed. He thinks he's keeping an eye on you, while you're keeping an eye on him. I like it."

"Well, it's about time I got my brain back in gear. It's not like this job requires much intellect."

He looked at me sideways. "What are you thinking?"

"Someone suggested I still had a year to finish my dissertation." 

"And?"

"I did some serious reading. It felt like shaking off the rust. It was good."

"Think you can do it?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd go see my old advisor," I said. It would give me cover for talking with her about the Intensity problem. 

The corners of Ricky's mouth turned up. "You do that."


	14. Conversation on campus

A phone call with Deanna on Sunday set a time for us to meet the next day. On Monday I went early to campus and spent time in the library. I tossed down copy of The New Republic in disgust after skimming three articles. Atlantic Monthly and Mother Jones weren't been any better, but I didn't have time to go into the stacks and get sucked into the poli sci literature. So much was happening in the world that I had missed while sitting on a stool at Plan 9 and skimming the Economist. Our local paper had almost no international news, and very little about anything that wasn't about the princess of some vegetable festival, or "town and gown" infighting. Chucking the television might not have been the best idea, but part of me still felt if I never saw a political pundit of any stripe again, it would be too soon.

And the web logs? What a weird combination of unfiltered idiocy and thoughtful commentary. Of course, I didn't catch half the references, and there were so many more sites out there now. How was I ever going to catch up? I rubbed my eyes, wondering what I thought I was doing even thinking about catching up. My life had a rhythm, mindless and easy. I was relatively sane and my private drug stash hadn't been touched in a year. On the other hand, it seemed I'd had a monkey wrench thrown in by this new drug and all that it brought with it, including the federal agent investigating Plan 9. 

I walked over to the department office, only about ten minutes late. Francine looked up. "This time she bothered to tell me you were coming. Go on in."

I knocked and opened the door. Dee had a phone to her ear, but waved me to sit. "Yes. Of course, but right now I don't have the time to debate it. I'll have Francine contact you to propose meeting times. Goodbye." She hung up the phone without waiting for any response. She sounded more imperious than I remembered her. "Lars."

"Dee."

"Any word on my little problem?"

"Yes," I said, and then nothing more. I was being a pedantic asshole, and reminding her that I wasn't in her little dominance chain.

"And?"

"The short answer is the DEA is investigating, they know how it's coming into town, and I don't think they know it's on campus."

She gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, shoulders slumping. "How long until you think it's wrapped up?"

"Hard to say. I think they're trying to go to the source, not just shut down local delivery."

She twisted her mouth. "Makes sense from their point of view. You didn't tell them anything, did you?" When I didn’t say anything, she straightened up. "And where is it coming in from?"

"Can't have it both ways, Professor Robinson. I didn't tell them about your little problem, and I've told you as much as I'm going to tell you."

"Fair enough." She cocked her head sideways. "So, have you thought about that year you have left? Do you want to finish your doctorate?"

Until she asked, I wasn't sure what I'd say, but I heard myself answer, "I'd like to. I've been thinking about my dissertation, and—"

She cut me off. "Start thinking again. Linda McPhee at Berkeley published a book two years ago that trumps what you were doing for your dissertation, and besides that, you'd be out of date to go back to that, anyway. The field took your book and has been making hay with it while you were away."

"Oh." So, it wasn't going to be that easy. I reached around the shin of my propped up leg and started fingering the laces of my boots where they wove in and out of the eyelets. "Any ideas?"

She pushed up her glasses. "It's supposed to be an original contribution to scholarship that gets you those three letters after your name, Mr. Dahl. Are you still capable of it?"

Dee rarely pulled punches, and I felt that one. "I'm sorry?"

"That Plan 9 place. I can't surmise that it would be stimulating to the intellect. Other things, perhaps, but not that. Why do you think you're ready?"

It wasn't the question I had expected, but I should have. My answer felt weak. "It seemed time." 

"Not good enough."

I stood up. There were windows between her office and the outer one. I opened and closed the vertical blinds.

"You're not talking," Dee said.

"I'm bored," I admitted.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Four years you spent listening to loud music, you could have spent finishing your degree. Leave those blinds alone. You'd be a professor somewhere now instead of starting from scratch."

I let go of the chain, but kept my back to her, watching some frat boy with stupid hair shaking in his sneakers before Francine. "Thanks for the reminder." 

"Don't get sarcastic with me, Lars. To be honest, I lost a lot of face when you melted down. You lost your fellowship, by the way. If you come back you'll be paying tuition or teaching, and I'm not sure I can trust you to teach."

"What?" I turned back to look at her. "I always had good ranks and no complaints."

"Yes, until you went off the syllabus and gave a lecture comparing and contrasting—what was that Satanist's name? —Aleister Crowley and Machiavelli. And then you never showed up again. No phone call, just one cryptic email I thought was a suicide note. I'd ask what possessed you, but that would be a horrible pun."

"Crowley wasn't a Satanist." _Lame, Lars_ , I thought. "Thanks for, uh, sending the cops."

"That's belated, and barely sincere, but you're welcome. And Satanist or not is not the point," Dee said. "Boredom isn't a good enough excuse, and it doesn't give me any reassurance you won't pull a stunt like that again just because you're bored. Do it because you want to. Not for me, not for your dad."

I ignored the crack about my father. 

Dee was still talking. "Come back in two weeks with five potential thesis topics, and be prepared to discuss current events with some indication that you've been awake for the last four years. Have Francine put you on my calendar."

It was a start. I walked back over to her and stuck out my hand. "Nice to see you, too, Dee."

"I'm not sure I like what I see," she said, barely shaking my hand. She looked away, gathering papers and sorting through them. "You can only pull off the rock star thing if you're still that good."

I left her office without another word, and asked Francine to schedule an appointment. The first opening in two weeks was on a Wednesday, but it was early enough in the day that I could take care of my usual routine at Plan 9 after.

I had intended to walk home, but I went back to the library and started thumbing through issues of the Journal of Theoretical Politics, skimming articles and looking for ideas. Without even looking for it, I noticed my book cited twice in five issues. People had read it, and had thought about it, even if one of the articles was still trying to prove me wrong.

I went home, dug out the proofs of my book, and started reading. I could barely remember writing it, much less making the margin notes.


	15. In which Lars is introduced to phone sex

I put down the proofs and glanced at the clock. It was after eleven at night and I was barely through five chapters, bogged down in the math and the more esoteric concepts we'd put in sidebars to make it readable by normal people. I leaned back on the loveseat and circled my neck to crack it. My glance landed on the cell phone in its charger. 

I leaned over and picked up the phone, thinking to dial Ricky's number, but remembered that he was never home during the first part of the week. I looked at the menu and decided to find the contact list instead. Brian said he'd programmed in his number. It took a minute for me to find it, but there it was. Not only had he put in his cell phone number, it was his complete information—landline, address, and email, too. I guess if he was in for a penny, as they say.

I called his land line.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Lars?"

"Yeah."

"I wondered how long it would take you to figure out the phone."

"Very funny," I said. "I chose not to have one. I'm not a moron."

"Yeah. So." Brian let the space hang empty, waiting to find out why I had called. I wasn't sure. Maybe I just wanted to see how he acted toward me when there wasn't the possibility of sex.

I said, "So, I talked to my graduate advisor today. I went up to the university."

"Yeah?" He sounded interested.

"I didn't leave because I was lazy. It's more complicated than that."

There was a long pause before he said, "I know."

Fuck. That shouldn't have surprised me. "How much do you know?"

"Not much," Brian said. "Nothing that isn't public record, okay?"

He was leaving me a shred of privacy, and also telling me that I didn't have to talk about it. I dropped the subject, and dropped my voice. Maybe there was the possibility of sex. "So what was it about that profile of me that made you think I'd submit to you like I do?"

He snorted. "As I recall, you pushed that scene."

"So push back. Phone's good for something."

He paused again. "If I say, What are you wearing? you'll just laugh at me."

"True."

"So what if I ask you to submit. Right here. Right now."

"You can't make me," I said. My heartbeat was picking up, and I could hear his breathing change.

"No, but you'll do what I tell you." His voice changed, too, going darker and deeper. I could see his face in my mind's eye: serious, eyes intent.

"Depends on what you tell me," I said, "and whether I feel like it."

"You'll do it, freak." That was the trigger for me. I could put away my suspicions for the moment and go with it.

I smiled. "What do you want, officer?"

"Go lie down on the bed, prop the phone by your ear, and open your jeans."

I did as he asked, half hard already.

"Don't touch yourself," Brian said. "You can pinch your nipples, anything from the waist up, but your dick is off limits."

Damn. I shoved my jeans and shorts down my thighs. I slid my hand up under my shirt and took my right nipple, the one without the piercing, and pulled on it, skating toward too hard with the first tug and squeeze. "What should I do, officer?"

"Talk to me." I could swear I heard a zipper and cloth against cloth. 

"What do you want to hear?"

"What do you want me to do to you this weekend, freak?"

I swallowed. I hadn't thought much about what I wanted, because he'd gotten so good at finding things to do, whatever his motive. As much as I never wanted to see the Sergeant again, there were a few things that happened that night that I blushed to remember, thinking about how hot he'd made me without ever touching me. "I want you to come here in the afternoon, before I go to work."

"Yeah?" 

"I'll be reading stuff for school." The instant I said it, I was shocked at how easy it was to say it. It felt natural, as if that's what I'd be doing for the next year or so. Plus, it was likely to be true next Saturday. I had a hell of a lot of reading to do before my next meeting with Professor Robinson.

"Oh?" There were a lot of questions in the way he said it, but I stuck with the script. 

"You'll tell me to get up and kneel in front of you, but I'll ignore you and keep reading. I won't mean to disobey." I shivered at the word, and holy fuck was that a surprise. "I'll just be caught up in whatever it is."

His breath in my ear, even through the tinny cell phone speaker, made me shiver again. "What will I do then?" he asked.

I ran my hand across my chest and down, stopping mid-torso because I wasn't supposed to touch myself. "You'll pull the papers out of my hand and haul me off the couch by my hair, sort of dragging me and making sure I end up on my knees." I breathed in deep, picturing it in my head, then moving my hand to pull my own hair, just to remind myself what it felt like when he and the Sergeant had used it to tell me what they wanted. It hurt good.

"Go on."

"You'll push me down so my ass is in the air, and you'll take—" I hesitated. It had to be something I would feel through the jeans, but wouldn't hurt his hands. "Your belt," I said. "Not your gun belt because you won't be in uniform. Just your regular belt." I wondered about what I'd just said, whether I wanted the dominance thing out of the context of officer. But I was me all the time, looking like I do. I guessed it was only fair, but it gave me something to think about.

Thinking meant I wasn't talking. Brian asked, "What will I do with that belt?"

"You'll bend me over with my head to the ground, and you'll stripe my backside three times for disobedience."

"Only three?"

"You'll hit hard. And you'll be careful not to hit my ass too low, too close to my balls. I'll be bruised, but able to walk, and through the jeans the skin won't split." I had no idea if any of that was true, but it sounded good. I could touch myself. He wouldn't know.

He knew. "Freak, your hands better be above the waist. Tell me what your hands were doing."

"I was reaching for my dick, officer." To try to soften his response I added, "I'm sorry. It's gotten so hard, thinking about what I want you to do to me."

"Hmm. Twist your eyebrow rings, and make it hurt."

I did it, and I made it hurt. "What else?"

"Keep talking."

"You'll haul me back up by the hair," I said, pulling my own hair again, "and you'll see that it made me hard."

"Little pervert," Brian said, his voice quiet, but rough-sounding.

"I'll be on my knees in front of you, and you'll order me to open your trousers and take out your cock. You won't be hard, because hitting me doesn't turn you on." I was sure I was right. He would slap me sometimes, pull on my piercings, but he'd never shown any inclination to spank or whip. Only the Sergeant had done that.

Brian didn't contradict me. "Then what?"

I told him, in detail, described every bit of the feel and taste of his cock in my mouth, until I said, "You'll take it as long as you can, but then you'll grab my ear and twist the rings on the top." I reached up to my ear and did it to myself. "What will you say?"

"I'll say, Suck me, freak. Jesus, I wish I had your mouth right now." He groaned. "Come on. Get me off, now." I thought I hated porn talk, but it came out of my mouth so easily, describing what I wanted to do to him, until Brian panted into the phone, "I'm going to come. Tell me."

"I'll feel it when it starts, the pulse on my tongue, and when you come I won't be able to swallow it all. By the time you're done, there'll be come leaking out of the corners of my mouth and down my chin." 

"Jesus, Lars. Oh, fuck," Brian said, and I knew he was getting off.

My hands were digging into the futon cover. I didn't need anything to make me hotter. "Please," I said.

My only answer was the sound of Brian catching his breath.

"Please?" I asked, trying not to whine.

"Beg me," he said, sounding barely in control.

"Please, officer, let me jack off."

"Why do you need to jack off?" His voice strengthened, and he sounded more like the cop.

"I just talked through a blow job on the phone, a blow job I wish I could give, and I'm so fucking hard right now that all I have to do wrap my hand around my dick and I'll pop my nuts, I swear."

"I thought I told you not to touch yourself, freak."

"I didn't, officer, I swear."

"Well, I'm not changing the order. You can get off, but you can't touch yourself. You can't use your hands."

I grabbed the phone and rolled over and tried to rub off on the futon cover, but it was too rough. He could probably hear my noises of frustration.

"No hands," he reminded me again.

Loophole, I thought. I rolled onto my back and propped the phone by my ear again. I crossed my arms over my cock and hunched up. "Oh, yeah," I sighed.

"Don't come yet," he ordered. "Whatever you're doing, freak, slow down."

"Yes, officer." Damn, it wasn't easy. I was so ready.

"What happens after I come in your mouth?"

"You lean down and tilt my face up with one finger under my chin, then you lick your own come off my face." I stopped moving my hips. I was close.

"Then what?"

"You pull me up by the hair." I could barely talk. "You swat me on the ass, just, just hard enough to make the bruises hurt, and you squeeze my dick through my jeans." My whole body was shaking in my need to get off.

"And?"

I tried to talk through it as I came. "I— Ah!" 

"You come in your pants," he finished for me. After a moment he asked, "You're that hot for me, huh, freak?" 

"That, yes, that hot for you, officer." I tried to get my breath back.

He laughed. "It was a good idea, getting you the phone."

"The best." How had I not known that phone sex could be so good?

"Good night, Lars," Brian said. "Some of us go to work in the morning."

Being reminded of his job snapped my head back into place. "'Night," I said, my voice sharper than I might have liked.

Neither one of us hung up, but there didn't seem like anything else to say. I'd called him expecting to find out more of who he was, to talk about the case, and see if he'd say more if he couldn't see me. Hadn't worked that way. For a few minutes, we'd had only honest manipulations, meaning to get each other off, and nothing else.

"See you soon," Brian said, and cut the connection, his words coming out so fast that it took me a second of listening to the silence to make out what he'd said. I think he was surprised by what had just happened, too.

I got up and cleaned myself off, and went to bed before midnight for the first time in years.


	16. More revelations

Wednesday I walked in into Plan 9 after Ricky had already finished the books. He was playing a computer game, something he didn't do very often, so I knew he'd been waiting for me.

"You're late," he said, not looking up.

"I was in the library. It's nice to have it to myself. The university is on break."

At that he turned away from the computer. "You okay?"

I snorted. "I am stunned by the stupid shit people say on the internet, but I'm okay. I'm going to try and finish grad school."

"Are you okay?" 

"Stop asking me that." Behind him on the screen his character died a horrible death, was reborn, and died again while Ricky looked at me. I said, "My brain is going to rot if I don't start using it again. I'm bored."

He turned back to the computer, talking as he exited the game. "If you're bored, why not start doing more of the business side of the business?" He brought up the spreadsheet he used for each night, and the one that tracked monthly expenses. "It's not rocket science."

"It's not political science, either." I went to the supply closet, and dragged out the cleaning things, changing my boots on the chill space couch. I found myself thinking, I'm better than this.

Ricky came out of the office and stood outside the door while I cleaned us. The job used to be, I don't know, soothing? Calming? It was a defined task that needed done, and I had always got some sort of satisfaction knowing that our bathrooms were never disgusting. Lord knows I'd been in enough clubs where they were toxic waste sites, and this had been something that mattered to me, that set us apart. For the first time, I dreaded the job.

Ricky was still standing there. "What?" I asked.

"You okay?"

"What, you think I'm going to lose my shit again just because I'm trying to get my brain back on line?" I scrubbed the pee splashes off the underside of the toilet seat, the smell of cleaner making me lightheaded. I used to enjoy the feeling, but this time I stepped out of the bathroom for fresh air. Ricky had a strange expression on his face, like he wasn't sure if he should ask, or if he even wanted to know the answer.

"I'm okay," I said. "I'm just ready to go back to it. I met with my advisor on Monday, and I have a meeting with her to pick a new dissertation topic two weeks from today."

"Will you stick around here?"

"What, afraid you'll have to find someone else to clean your bathrooms and bounce the punks?"

He gave me one of his rare smiles, but it was the sarcastic one. "No cleaning service would take the job, would they?"

"Ricky, you didn't know me much before." I didn't have to specify before what, and I stumbled, not wanting to say something stupid. Taking me on to help open Plan 9 had probably kept me from ending up dead, but it was time to get back to school and finish what I started. "I'm not stupid," was all I could say.

"If I thought you were, you wouldn't be here," he said. "Do what you have to do."

With that, he'd said everything that needed said. "I was planning on doing both."

"Cool."

I turned to finish the job. "I guess I don't have to ask if you can afford to pay me any more, but I still want to know how we did last week."

"See, you do have an interest in the business side," Ricky said.

He kept my mind occupied with the numbers, but stopped when the door to the space opened.

"What the heck are you doing here?" I heard Ricky say to whoever had walked in. It was strong language for him, but he didn't sound angry.

I looked up, and he was smiling. It was nothing I'd ever seen on his face before. The bastard looked happy. I stuck my head out of the bathroom to see who had come in. 

It was Angie.

She crossed the concrete floor, low-heeled pumps making a hard click on the concrete with every step. She wore a beige pants suit with a bag slung over one shoulder, and her whole air was sleek confidence. The brass of her punk days was polished up to a high gloss. "Surprise, honey," she said.

Ricky walked up to her, and they kissed. "What brings you down here?"

She glanced over at me. "Lars, you look fetching." 

I knew I looked like shit, with my hair held back, the Wellingtons, and today's gloves the color of PeptoBismol. I raised one pink middle finger to her.

"Charming as ever," she laughed.

"Why are you here?" Ricky asked again.

Why the fuck did you kiss her? I thought, but didn't say aloud.

Angie looked at me again, and I realized that Brian wouldn't have told her that I knew about the case, so I snorted at her, dragged the supplies into them and shut the door. 

I thought while I worked. This was going to suck. I wondered what she would tell Ricky, and I wondered whether they would tell me. Was I supposed to pretend I didn't know about the case, that she was FBI? How would Brian want me to play this? And why the hell did Ricky look happy to see her? And why the hell did I even care what Brian thought?

I finished up, and decided to play it dumb.

When I opened the bathroom door, I heard giggling coming out of the office.

I glanced in, and Angie was on Ricky's lap, and his hair was pulled out of the ponytail, partly covering both their faces. They were rubbing noses, and Ricky said, "I don't believe this. You're in the field already and managed to get assigned here?"

"Lucky me," Angie said, then noticed me standing there, peeling off my gloves and headband. I can't imagine what kind of look was on my face, but her happy expression went cold. "Lars."

"Angie," I said, and looked at Ricky. "What's she doing here?"

Angie answered. "You could ask me that question. I'm sitting right here."

"Okay. What the fuck are you doing here?" 

"I have two weeks off, and I decided to spend them with my husband."

Holy fuck. "Husband?" I looked at Ricky.

"Yeah." He looked sheepish and happy. "We got married before she graduated."

I put a few facts together. "So that's where you are from Sunday to Tuesday most weeks."

"Yep," Ricky answered.

This was fucked up in more ways than I could sort out. I changed back into my boots and headed for the door. "I'll be back to sweep before load in," was all I trusted myself to say. I heard nothing behind me.

I had an hour to kill to get back in time to do the job before the band showed up, so I went over to the coffee shop by campus, a door I hadn't darkened in over two years. 

"Lars!"

"Hey, man."

"Long time no see."

With the university on break, I knew every third person there, and as little as I wanted to talk with anyone, it took me a good twenty minutes of face time to even get to the counter to order. There was a drink waiting for me in a pint glass.

"Eyeopener," the barrista said. She looked familiar from Plan 9, but I didn't know her name. "I heard that's what you used to drink."

I hadn't planned on more than regular coffee, and hadn't had one of these in years. "Eyeopener?" I said stupidly.

"Double latte made with espresso brewed with coffee instead of water. Not too many people can handle it."

I wasn't sure I could handle it any more. I'd probably have to start drinking beer early to calm down the shakes. I paid her for it, and she pushed a plate of cheesecake across the counter. "On the house," she said. "Everyone's glad to see you out in the daylight."

What, was I a vampire or something? "Thanks." I found a table by myself in the window, managing somehow to keep company away. I ate the cheesecake to the sound of traffic and whatever whiny folk music they were playing. I tried to spend time synthesizing what I'd been reading in the library, but the weird image of Ricky looking happy kept breaking through.

When I finished the cheesecake I still had fifteen minutes and half the coffee, and I was tired of trying to concentrate. I pulled out the phone and called Brian on his cell to tell him Angie was in town and to find out if he knew she was married to Ricky.

"Hey," I said.

"Hi." He sounded distracted.

I couldn't resist being an asshole. I lowered my voice, and added some breath. "So, what are you wearing?"

Brian coughed a fake cough, and answered, "Not a good time. I'm at work."

I smiled, thinking, Gotcha. "And I'm in a coffee shop. Actually, I was calling about work."

"Oh?" He sounded more focused. "What's up?"

"Angie showed up today."

"Oh," he said. 

"They didn't tell you?"

"No." He sounded like someone was going to have to explain why he hadn't been informed. "I'm not sure that's going to work the way they want it to, not after what you told me. Have you talked with her?"

"Only briefly. I gave her the finger and asked what the fuck she was doing here."

"What did she say?"

"That she was on vacation."

"Did she say why she would take a vacation there?"

I took a breath. "Are you sitting down?"

"Yeah. Why?"

I drawled out the words, still angry at having been kept in the dark. "She was visiting her husband."

"She's married? To who?"

"Some guy named Richard Cabot," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I think people around here call him Ricky." There was silence on the end of the line. "Y'know," I said, "you think they'd mention something like that to someone supposedly on the same team." I meant Brian's situation as much as mine. I still couldn't sort out Ricky not telling me.

Brian's answer was automatic. "The FBI wouldn't tell us who farted in a crowded elevator. Heck, they'd pretend they couldn't even smell it."

"If she tells Ricky you're part of her team, I wonder if he'll tell her you're fucking his business partner." Saying it, it hit me. Not only had Ricky failed to tell me he was married, and to Angie of all people, but if he told her about me and Brian, Brian's career was screwed. I didn't trust her to keep it secret.

"This probably wasn't the best idea." Brian said.

"Wasn't one of my brighter ones, either," I said.

"Wasn't your idea. I'm just not sure how to handle it, now."

I knew how. "So, bye. Nice knowing you and all that."

"Wait!" he said. "What do mean? Don't hang up."

"What." He was going to do what he had to do to save his investigation, hell, his job and his whole fucking baseball cap life. It shouldn't matter to me. It was one less manipulation to have to watch out for.

"I meant it was a bad idea to try an interagency team." I could hear in his voice that he was in full damage control mode. Too late.

"Whatever. Nice knowing you. Good luck getting the bad guys. Fuck with my club and I'll out you myself." 

I started to close the phone when I heard him yell, "L—Wait!"

"What?"

"Damn it," he whispered, "I'm in my office at work." 

"Yeah? And?"

"I almost just yelled your name loud enough that everyone nearby looked up."

"Sucks for you," I said. "I guess you're not lucky enough that your girlfriend's name is Laura or Lisa?"

"I'm serious," he said, his voice still hushed. "I was talking about the collaboration with the FBI. I can't believe the bureau would send a green agent into the field on a case that involved her husband."

"No one else will believe it either."

"What?"

I glanced around the coffee shop. No one was close enough to hear, or seemed to be paying attention. "Did you tell them that you'd been made as a cop?"

"I had to. They wanted to pull me, but I convinced them that I'd be a good decoy. If Turner and his people think that I think my cover is still good, then Agent Grissom would be under less scrutiny, and I'd still be there to back her up."

"Good thinking," I said. "If anybody else new showed up, especially an adult, the kids at Plan 9 would know something was up. They all know each other, and they're not stupid."

"Angie's a known quantity," he said. He sounded like he was getting my point.

"With a slutty reputation."

He laughed in one short bark, "And who expects a slut in the FBI?"

"Well, she looks pretty damn corporate right now, so I hope to hell she changes her look."

Brian sighed. "This is a problem."

"Yeah, she'll stand out like a flamingo in a hog pen," I said, deliberately misunderstanding.

"True, but not where I was going with that," he said, and then added, "Flamingo in a hog pen?"

"Something my mother used to say."

"Notice that I'm not the one that called Plan 9 a sty."

"The finger in the middle?" I said. "Pointing skyward for you, asshole. So what's the problem?"

"Interagency teams are tough, but if they're going to work, things have to be up front. There's no way the FBI doesn't know who she's married to, and they still put her on the case even as a desk officer. Not even telling us she has a conflict of interest is a serious problem." He sighed again. "What else aren't they telling us?"

"You could ask."

"How do I tell them I know about Agent Grissom's marriage? How did I learn that? I don't even know how she's planning to play it down there. Did they only tell you, or will they tell everyone they're married?"

"I don't know." I looked up at the clock. I needed to get back there, but didn't want to face any of this. "I have to get to work," I said. "Do you want me to call you tonight and tell you how they play it?"

"Yeah," he said. His voice sounded flat. "I'll be asleep, so if you get voice mail, call again."

"Sure thing. And, Brian?"

"Yeah."

Just to mess with him I said, "Make sure you have some lube next to the bed when I call."

I could hear him draw a breath. I didn't expect his voice to go low. "You're the best bad idea I ever had."

He was trying to pull me back. I hated that it worked, and between Ricky not telling me about Angie and Brian yanking my chain, I'd had enough. "Don't fuck with me. I can out you and blow Angie's cover if you don't fucking stop trying to manipulate me." 

"I wasn't—" he started.

"Shut up," I said, and shut the phone.


	17. In which Lars tries to weave it together

The barrista had given me a second Eyeopener on my way out, on the house, and I unlocked the door to Plan 9 and hit the alarm code practically vibrating. Angie and Ricky were gone, and I didn't want to think about what they were probably doing. I fired up the PA and put something loud and fast on the CD player to distract me while I swept. It wasn't the best move. By the time I finished, I hadn't so much worked out my aggression with the broom as worked it up, and I wanted things that I could break. I cracked a beer and sat on the stage, waiting for him to come in.

The music was loud enough that I missed the sound of the door. The noise suddenly stopped, I looked up to see Ricky up in the sound booth.

"Hi," he said.

I didn't trust myself to talk, so I shot him a bird.

"That's a mature response."

"Fuck you."

"What are you mad about? That I didn't tell you?"

I drained the beer and crushed the can flat under my boot. "You could say that."

"Do you think it was easy to sit here and listen to you trash her? I mean, do you think anyone would do anything but give me grief about it? Everyone and their brother knew I saw her in the office with that guy. And you? You were the first to condemn her."

"What was I supposed to think?" I asked. "Your girlfriend sucks off another guy in your own office chair during a show?"

Ricky's voice got low and dangerous. "Two things, Lars. It's not like you've got a leg to stand on. You slept with Blue when you're supposed to be with Brian. And second, I caught her because she told me when to come back there. It was just bad luck that someone else saw when I went in."

"What? She set you up to catch her?" I could not believe this. I tossed the can toward the garbage and went up the six steps into the sound booth for another beer. I stepped past Ricky to the small fridge. "That's fucked up."

"See?" Ricky said. "That's why I didn't talk about it."

"You want one?" I asked, reaching in for a can of beer.

"It's a little early."

I opened the beer, and we stood in the sound booth at opposite corners. "Why'd she do it?"

"She knew I liked it."

Holy fuck. "Watching your girlfriend give another guy head?" 

"I'd think someone like you would tolerate other people's kinks." He busied himself setting all the knobs and sliders on the soundboard to neutral positions.

"Like me? What the hell does that mean?"

"What do you and your cop get up to?" He didn't turn to look as he asked. I wondered if he really wanted to know.

"He—" I wasn't sure how to say it. Tells me what to do and I pretend to resist? Doesn't hit me as much as I'd like? "He dominates me. Most of the time."

"Just like dear old Dad, huh?"

That was a sucker punch. I grabbed Ricky by the shoulder and spun him hard, shoving him so he was leaning back over the half wall, sloshing beer over my other hand where I gripped the can hard enough to make fingerprints in the metal. "Fuck you," I said, our faces nearly touching.

Ricky didn't back down, but he pulled his head back so he could look down his nose at me. His voice was calm. "I listened to you talk trash about my wife for three years. I think I can mention that your dad was a domineering bastard. According to you."

"And dead," I reminded him, letting go and taking two steps back.

"Yeah, so does Brian know he's a substitute for Daddy?"

I threw the beer at him. There was no thought in my head but rage. It hit him above the eye and bounced over the wall of the booth to land on the concrete below. The only sound was the noise of the beer foaming out.

Ricky reached up to touch his brow, but there was no blood. I was too close to be able to throw it that hard, but it had to hurt. His face was blank, which meant he was supremely pissed off.

"Shit," I said.

"That's a word for it."

"You never told me you married her. I might have kept my damn mouth shut, if I'd known."

"Maybe," Ricky said. "I stay off Brian, and you stay off Angie, agreed?"

Neither one of us was going to apologize. This was the best we could do. "Agreed," I said, "if you'll tell me one thing."

"Maybe." Ricky said. "Depends on what it is."

"I never told you the cop's name."

"You sure?"

I just looked at him.

"Okay. Angie knows him."

I didn't ask how. I just kept looking at him.

"Look," he said, "I can't talk about it."

"You damn well better."

"Give me a break, Lars. I can't talk about it." He looked at me, his gaze level.

"I'll help. Your wife is in the FBI. She's working on an interagency team that includes one Brian Hoechst, who has been working here undercover, except that his damn cover was blown on day one, thanks to me. Did she tell you that, and do you remember who he's with?"

Ricky took a breath and looked away. "Drug Enforcement Agency."

"Administration," I corrected. "The A stands for administration."

"Whatever. She never told me what case she was working on. She didn't even know Plan 9 was involved, for sure. They had her supporting the investigations in Athens, Georgia, and Tallahassee and Gainesville, down in Florida."

That made the FBI sound slightly less stupid. "Did you tell her about me and Brian?"

Ricky turned back to me, tilted his head back again. "I've kept my own secrets. Did you think I'd spill yours?"

Something tight in me unwound. "Thank you. It would totally fuck his career if this got out." I didn't want anyone but me to be able to do that.

"I'm not stupid," he said, throwing my own words back at me.

"Yeah." I let it soak in for a moment. Some of the anger drained out. "So, what's the deal, are you guys going to tell the world you're married, or just me?"

"You scared the crap out of her when you left like that. She was afraid you'd broadcast it and she'd have to change her cover." Ricky ran his hands over his face. "She wasn't planning to tell you, but you were here and you were acting like a jerk and she couldn't help yanking your chain."

"Tell her to stand in line," I said, thinking of Brian. "What's her cover?"

"She's using her vacation time from an office job to try to win me back." Ricky smiled, looking off into nothing. "I'm supposed to play hard to get." 

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "You're happy," I said. "With her."

He looked back at me. "Yeah."

"Can't say I see it."

"You don't know her. You only ever see people here, Lars, when they're out partying. That's not who they are."

"I guess," I said, trying to put a lid on the edge I was feeling. I got another beer, cracked it, and drank half.

"Lars—" Ricky started.

"What?" I burped. I couldn't help it.

He grimaced, but said, "School will be good for you." 

I didn't know what to say to that, but lucky for me there was a knock at the door. Ricky and I looked at each other. No one knocked. I went down to open the door, stepping over the spilled beer, and found that it wasn't locked. There were four nervous teenage punks outside, with Mom's minivan half unloaded with gear. I wracked my brain to remember the name of the band. "Scrapegoat, right?"

"Uh, no, we're opening for them. We're Unelectable John Edwards."

I opened the door wide and stuck a stop under it. "Come in, my young political pundits."

I leaned against the door out of their way as they brought things in. They were quiet, which was weird.

"First gig jitters?" I asked the guitarist, or at least the one carrying guitars at that instant.

He startled, looking at me as if he were scared, then glancing up at Ricky. "Uh, sure."

Everything from there went pretty routine, except that I was right about the Eyeopeners and the amount of beer required to counteract two of them. I'd practically lived on those things when I was writing my book, and I couldn't imagine it now. I spent most of the night playing out scenarios for the strange circus I was in, wondering whether Turner would pull the bands to punish Ricky for breaking with him, find another route, or infiltrate Ricky's new web site. I wondered how it would all play out with Angie and Brian, and if I could keep straight who knew what, myself included. 

First thing was that Angie had said she was on vacation, so she didn't know I knew why she was really there. Second was that snatch of conversation I heard, and I figured she'd told him about being on the case, but that he hadn't known beforehand. Third, they'd been married for over three years, almost the whole time I'd worked with Ricky, and he'd never mentioned it. The FBI hadn't mentioned it to the DEA, either.

Would the DEA pull Brian because the FBI had been withholding information? What kind of politics were happening at the upper levels of the agencies? I played with the puzzle pieces in my head for most of the night, at one point diagramming a process on my arm with a marker. I had an idea for how to make sure Turner didn't bolt. No one was going to like it, and I wasn't sure about one section of it. I didn't like Angie, and didn't trust her. Nothing to fake there. And I'd have to treat Brian like some guy I'd made as a cop who showed up now and then. Okay, that wasn't different, because I didn't trust him, either. 

When the show was over, I shooed out the last of the kids and started the closing routine. The cleanup on Wednesdays was never that bad, and shoveling up the cans and bottles took less time. I was done and hanging out on my stool by the door, draining my eighth or tenth beer of the day, when I heard the kids talking outside as they loaded back out into the minivan.

"I don't know. They were acting like things were cool," said a voice.

"Yeah, but Andy saw Lars throw a beer can at him!"

"I saw it on the floor when we walked in," said a third voice

"I wonder what Ricky did?" said a fourth voice

"Oh come on," said the second voice. "Everyone knows Lars is a little…"

He didn't finish the sentence, so I got up and looked around the doorway. "Lars is a little what?"

"Nothing, man," said one of the kids, glancing at my ink-covered arm. "It's just that Andy said…" 

"Don't let me hear about any of you talking shit about problems between me and Ricky. There aren't any."

"Right."

"Yeah."

"Sure, man."

They were all trying not to stare at the diagrams and equations on my arm. I said, "Now go home before Mom wonders where her van is." I turned back into the space, closing the door behind me so they wouldn't see me smile, and added another pathway to the traces on my arm. I grabbed another beer and walked back to the office where Rick was doing something at the computer. We hadn't talked to each other since the bands came in. 

"Hey."

He looked up. "Hey."

There was swelling on his left eyebrow, but it was red, not purple. Still, shit. "Are we okay?"

"You shouldn't have thrown a beer at me."

"Yeah, and you shouldn't have dragged my dad into this."

"True." He looked pointedly at the diagrams on my arm. "Are you okay?"

Fucking hell. "I'm fine. Coffee and beer, and have you noticed that our damn lives have become a little complicated at the moment? Secret marriages. Federal agents. Ring a bell?"

"And you were drawing on your arm again because…?"

"I was trying to predict how it would all turn out."

Ricky closed his eyes, then opened them. "We help Angie nail Shad Turner."

"You can help. I'm not helping. I told Brian already." I swayed a little, and leaned on the doorway to stop things from moving.

"We have to help. Not only do I not like being used the way he did, that Intensity stuff is bad. Angie's told me what some kids have done on it."

"I've seen what it does. That's what Blue was on that night."

"Oh," he said. "Right."

"Yeah." I rubbed my head and changed the subject. "One of the kids saw me throw that beer."

"Ah, that explains the sound check. I've never had a singer apologize for asking for more in the monitor."

"I told them not to tell anyone, which pretty much means it'll be all over town by tomorrow afternoon."

Ricky looked at me. "What are you thinking?"

I chugged half the beer before answering. "Politics."

"What?"

"I could lay out the players and the connections, the alliances and apparent rifts, but that would probably bore you. Hell, it would bore me because I've already done it." I raised my arm.

"Lars?" Ricky was looking at me, but I wasn't focusing well and couldn't read his face.

"I'm going to help by not helping." And I threw my head back and started to laugh.


	18. In Pabst Blue Ribbon veritas

I heard a motorcycle, close to my head, and smelled exhaust. The engine roared and then cut off. I was on the couch in the chill space, not sure how I'd gotten there. I opened my eyes just enough to see someone getting off a bike parked about six feet from me. He wasn't wearing a helmet. He had a blond brush cut. Brian.

I was drunk. Ricky must have made me lie down, and I had no idea what Brian was doing here. When I could focus, I realized he was wearing leather riding chaps over his jeans. How gay could he get? I started laughing again.

"Sleeping Beauty's awake," I heard Ricky say.

I struggled to sit up. "Brian, Ricky, meet each other." I waved in their direction. "Ricky says he won't tell his wife you're fucking me."

"So he tells me," Brian said, and walked over to me. "He also says you're shit-faced." Even drunk I could hear the scorn.

"He's not stupid," I said. I tried to stand up, but my legs weren't cooperating. I was way too far away from more beer, so I tried again, but only managed to butt my head against Brian's chap-covered thigh. I gave up and leaned on him, breathing in the smell of leather and highway. 

Ricky said, "I told Brian to leave his bike here so he can drive you home."

"Cool," I said to the leather. My big, gay pet cop. Keep him happy. Keep him distracted.

"Keys?" Brian asked.

They were snapped on my belt loop, but he was going to have to find them himself. I moved my head over, putting my face against the fly of his jeans, then reaching up to bite the button.

"Lars, c'mon," Brian said, stepping back.

I grabbed him by the chaps and pulled him toward me, and he swore as he almost lost his balance. I took the corner of the waistband of his jeans in my teeth and unbuttoned them, holding tight enough to the leather that he couldn't get away.

"Lars." This time it was Ricky.

"Close up shop," I said, "unless you want to watch me blow him." I wondered if he'd like watching a guy give head as much as he liked watching a girl. "I don't mind the audience, but Brian might." I reached for the tab of his zipper with my teeth, and pulled it down.

Brian pushed my head back and tried to back away. "This is not cool. Cut it out."

"That an order, officer?" I gripped his chaps tighter and leaned in again. "I want to suck you," I said, and it was the only thing in the world I wanted right then.

Brian groaned, "Jesus." I knew I had him, and, fuck, but I wanted him.

I heard Ricky snort, and walk to the alarm panel. "There's an exit button. Just press this and you've got thirty seconds to get out."

I pulled my head back. "Go away. Go home and fuck your wife."

"Screw you, Lars," Ricky said, and the door closed behind him.

"Rather screw you," I said to Brian's hipbone.

"Lars," he groaned as I reached to pull down the waistband of his briefs. "Jesus."

I couldn't move his jeans down much with the chaps on, but I didn't want those chaps to go anywhere. 

"You're drunk."

"No shit. Want to suck you." I moved toward his dick again, hunger in the back of my throat, but he held me by the hair. "Give it to me," I growled.

I leaned to make him pull my hair harder, and heard noises of cloth. "Please," I begged.

"Tell me why you want it." I opened my eyes to see him stroking himself. "Tell me."

"Good in my mouth. Feels good, sweet and smooth. Big. Tastes like you. You. Want you."

"Why?"

I let go of my grip on his chaps and ran my hand over every part of him I could reach, feeling leather and muscle. I looked up at him. His eyes— Any other reason I thought I had went out of my head at the look in his eyes. "So fucking hot," I said.

His hand slowed. "That's it? Just sex?"

"Please. Need to suck." I leaned forward, drunk and hungry.

His grip in my hair tightened, and it started to hurt where he pulled. "Anyone? Could it be anyone here and you'd be begging for it?"

I shook my head as much as I could, twisting my hair in his grip. "You," I said around the emptiness in my mouth. "You. You." 

He let go of my hair. "Take it." His voice was rough, and he was rough with me, but I did what I could to match him. In the end he was barely able to keep his feet. When he got his breath back, he said, "Jesus, you're good."

I laughed into his hipbone. "I'm great."

He straightened up and looked down at me, one finger under my chin to tilt my face up. Brian leaned in to kiss me, close mouthed, then licked my face to clean it. I shivered.

He stood back and pulled me to my feet, palming down the front of my jeans and finding nothing interesting. "You?" he asked.

"Whisky dick, courtesy of Pabst Blue Ribbon. M'fine." There was no way I was getting it up, and I'd probably pass out anyway.

"Let's get you home."

I unhooked my keys from my belt as he zipped his fly and pulled a set of saddlebags off the motorcycle. I don't remember the drive back to my place.

I woke up with the taste of dirt in my mouth. There was someone in bed with me, my jaw ached, and I was naked. I had to look to see who it was, and the bleached brush cut sticking out from the covers was huge relief. Bits and pieces of last night started to come back. The clock said 4:19 when I stumbled out of bed to the bathroom, where I relieved myself of the beer, brushed my teeth with water, and then drank about a half gallon straight from the faucet. I looked at the writing down my left arm, and most of it still made sense. It looked like had tried to map out the situation of who knew what, who stood to gain and lose, using game theory, information theory, and rational actor economic paradigms. Apparently, I was planning something.

I had a headache starting, and I was still buzzed. I looked in the mirror and wondered what the hell I'd been thinking last night. I remembered offering for Ricky to watch while I blew Brian, and I wasn't sure I hadn't said something about not being his wife, but it might be hot anyway. I hoped I hadn't said that one aloud. What else had I said? My eyeliner was smeared, so I ran the water again and washed my face, drank more, and reached for a towel. I left black smears on it, but it was good enough.

Brian's eyes were open when I cam back to bed. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"Still drunk, I think."

"Not surprising. Ricky said you cleared out the beer fridge."

I sat on the bed. "What else did he tell you?"

"He told me Agent Grissom wouldn't find out about us from him." Brian reached out and ran his fingers down my back, stopping to push on the goat head subdermal. "We have to be careful."

"No shit." 

He pulled me down and I lay on my back.

"Hey," he said again, running the back of his hand down the side of my face.

"What are you doing here?" It wasn't a question I had thought to ask last night.

"I told my superiors that the FBI had sent Agent Grissom down. They told me to join her. I'm assigned here for as long as she is."

"And how did you tell them you knew she was here?"

"I have an informant, it seems."

"Not me," I said, and pointed at my left arm. The meaning of the symbols was suddenly very clear. "If this is going to work, I can't be involved."

Brian ran his hand down the symbols. "Ricky told me that you used to do this when you were—" He paused, and filled in with, "Having problems."

"I'm fine." Why was everyone acting worried about me?

"You're not acting fine," he said, raising my arm at the wrist. "Plus, shit-faced drunk. Rick also said he hadn't seen you that trashed in two years."

"Fuck that. I'm fine."

"Yeah, right."

"Look," I said, my head spinning. "I have ideas, ways to make sure this goes down right. I need you to trust me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Shad Turner. Intensity. You know, the reason you came here in the first place?"

Brian said, "I'm not awake enough for this conversation."

I rolled toward him, and ran my fingers over his short, short hair. "Do you trust me?"

"You've got my career in your back pocket." 

"That's not an answer."

"Ricky said you said something about helping by not helping." Brian put his hand on my flank. "What are you thinking?"

I rolled to my back, and Brian's fingers trailed over my stomach and stayed there. I said, "I have to let people believe certain things." I raised up my arm, tracing through the symbols and half-solved equations. The variables in this process were legion.

"What do you want me to believe?"

"That I'm helping by not helping, and that you can trust me."

He rubbed his hand up to my chest, leaned in and kissed my shoulder. "Then I'll believe it."

Holy fuck, I thought. It couldn't be that easy. How was he trying to manipulate me now? "Let's go back to sleep."

After a minute I said, "I don't know what came over me last night. I was fucked up and just—look, I know it was stupid." I tried to sound apologetic.

"I went along with it," he said, "and you were great."

"Yeah." I turned, facing away from him, not sure how I felt about hearing the word great, but he wrapped himself around my back.

So soft that I barely heard it he said, "You." 

I couldn't for the life of me figure out why the word resonated somewhere deep.


	19. Lars hatches his plans

I had planned to go to the library, but the hangover was a killer. I was out of shape. Probably needed to start drinking more. Brian had been gone when I woke up late in the afternoon, a note saying that he'd gone to check into the hotel his agency was paying for. I didn't really want to face him right now, anyway.

I forced myself through my workout, only dry heaving once. After showering off the sweat, I made coffee and lounged with a mindless book until it was time to go into Plan 9. The shower hadn't cleaned all the markings off my arm, but I would need the reminder. I had a role to play, and being hung-over, freaky-looking, and in a foul mood would probably help.

I went in late on purpose. The band was one of Shad Turner's, and they were loading in already. Ricky shot me a look. I shot him a bird, and he physically recoiled. Fuck, but this was going to be the hardest part. Ricky had shoveled up the bottles and cans from last night, probably while I was passed out on the couch, but nothing else had been done. I gave the bathrooms a look, and they needed at least a once-over, but that didn't require gearing up. They were done in ten minutes. I put stuff away and went into the office to get the cash for the door, and Ricky followed me in.

"You need to get over it." 

I turned and looked at him. He hadn't slept much and there was a slight bruise over his eye from where I hit him with the beer can, if you knew where to look. "Get over what?" I asked. "I'm a little hung over. I tied one on, last night—"

"As my dad used to say," he finished. He glanced out the door before answering. "Seriously, just get over that I didn't tell you about Angie. She's coming in tonight."

I sat down in his chair, weighing my options. "I'm pissed off at you," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I'm going to stay pissed off at you, and I'm going to treat Angie like shit."

I glanced up, and he was looking down, his face slightly flushed.

"Ricky," I said, and he looked at me, expression blank, just color on his face to show how upset he was. I nodded to the door, and he stepped in and closed it behind him. "It's the best way to make her damn cover stick." I watched him put the pieces together, and I raised my left arm. "If everyone else—Turner, Angie, maybe even Brian—if they think we have a problem, we'll have a different information flow, different assumptions about motivations, different actions based on those assumptions. We're going to have a public fight about banning Trey, which I need to win, and I'll bet you money that if I play this right, Shad Turner will see me as a potential ally. We can walk him right into a trap, and maybe go up line from him."

"That's… potentially brilliant. I'm not sure I've ever heard you use words that big in conversation. You okay?"

"Would you stop asking me that?" Fucking hell, what was everyone's problem lately? "Remember, you didn't know me when I was in school before, and I'm going back to it, and I'm not going to flake out, okay?"

Ricky didn't look convinced. "Alright. Are you going to clue in Angie and Brian?"

I shook my head. "Probably not. They have to believe it, that I'm going over to the dark side."

Ricky gestured toward my arm, with the traces of marker. "So this is all an act?"

"No, I just didn't have anything to write on."

"Okay." He dragged out the word. 

I could tell he didn't like it. "What?"

"It's like I don't know you."

"I could say the same thing, starting with you being a married man." I leaned back and looked at him. "You're one of the Boston Cabots, aren't you? What's that rhyme about the land of the bean and the cod? 'Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells, and the Lowells speak only to God?' Those Cabots?" 

He swallowed. "That's backwards. The Cabots talk only to God."

"Trust funds, good schools, and all that. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Qualifying for my trust distribution required two things. I had to found and run a successful business for at least three years, and I had to be married for at least three years."

"So how does the family like Angie?"

He smiled, almost real, mostly evil. "I have no idea, because they've never met her. I'm not going back to that. I played by their rules long enough to get what I wanted."

There was a world of things underneath what he'd said, and I let it go. "So," I said.

"So."

"We're not going to be getting along very well for a while."

He smirked and touched his forehead where the beer can had hit him. "You'll be even more of a jerk than usual?"

I stood up, putting the cash in my pocket. "Yep."

"Lars," he said, as I started to move past him.

"What?"

"Whatever you're up to, I don't want to lose the club."

"That's the plan. They get the bad guys, no one knows we helped, and Plan 9 keeps rolling."

"I made a bet on you four years ago. I was right. I'm betting again."

That bet meant a lot to me, but all I said was, "Thanks, man. From here on out, I'm going to say things I don't mean, okay?"

"I'll give as good as I get."

I nodded. "Don't tell Angie."

He rolled his eyes. "I got that part."

"Not stupid."

"Nope."

"Show time."

He gripped my shoulder once, hard, as I went out the door, and I gave him a light punch in the stomach. I couldn't decide if all this was going to suck, or be the most fun I'd had in years.

Later that night as the crowd funneled in, Blue handed me her money, not meeting my eyes. It was the first time I'd seen her since that night at her house. I leaned in as I stamped her hand. "We're cool. No stress, no gossip."

Her Mohawk dipped as she nodded. 

"Listen, I told you a lot of stuff that night. How much have you said to anyone else?"

She looked at me, eyes wide. "Nothing, Lars."

"Okay." I was surprised, and pretty sure she wasn't lying.

She leaned in, and I put my arms around her, since that was what she seemed to want. She hugged me back, and reached up to kiss my mouth, once, and then again. Then she passed into the noise of the band, and the girl behind her in line gave me a funny look.

"You got a problem?" I asked.

The girl shook her head and gave me her money. So much for no gossip. I wondered how that kiss from Blue would make the rounds. I looked up, and Brian was about six people back in line. I wondered if he'd seen it. From the look on his face when he handed me his money, he must have. I shrugged at him, and checked his hands. He was wearing the rings on every other finger, which seemed to be code for unarmed. 

Because it wouldn't make sense not to, I passed the signal to the band. Blue caught sight of him, and started to spread the word. Cop in the house.

About half an hour later, when the line had died down and the band was well into their set, Trey showed up.

"Hey, Lars."

"Trey."

"Can I go in?" He looked nervous.

I did my best to look bored. "Got ten bucks for the cover?"

He pulled out his wallet. "Blue told me," he started, but didn't finish.

"Blue told you what?"

"She said you and Ricky were going to ban me."

"Ricky wants to ban you, but I work the damn door. Ten bucks. Pony up," I said, holding out my hand for his money.

He dug out a five and some ones, and gave them to me. I counted out four ones, and held my hand out again for the one that was missing. He gave it to me, and as I stamped his hand I said, "Just be careful, okay?"

"About what?" he asked, trying to look dumb.

"I'm not stupid, and neither is Ricky. We just have different places we draw the line. Keep it on the downlow, and keep that shit out of here, and I won't bother you."

"What shit? I don't know what you're talking about." His eyes shifted around, and I almost laughed.

"You suck at lying, Trey. Whatever you're moving, I don't want it here. And if you're smart, you don't either. If the cops start associating this place with that stuff you gave to Blue and those skinhead friends of yours, we're all in deep shit. They want any excuse to shut us down. Now I don't want that to happen, and you don't want to lose your post office." I got off the stool and looked down at him. "Do you understand me?"

Trey's eyes went wide, then narrowed. Stupid kid was playing at being a major player. "I got it, Lars. We're cool."

"So, go on in."

Five minutes later he came out again, pushed out the door by Ricky. Ricky looked at me and nodded. Here we go, I thought.

"What is he doing in here?" Ricky asked. "I told you he was banned."

"Fuck you," I said. "I never agreed to that."

"I don't want him in here."

"You haven't given me a good enough reason. He's a regular and he's never given me a problem."

"Never?" Ricky sneered.

I grimaced. "Okay, that was strike one, but have you ever been that stupid again?" I asked Trey.

He shook his head, looking twelve instead of sixteen.

Ricky snorted, and pulled his best Old Money face. "I can't believe you're fighting me on this. Who do you think financed this place? Who keeps it going?"

"Don't pull that shit. You couldn't run this place without me, and you know it. You ban Trey, who is not causing any trouble, and I walk."

"Be my guest," Ricky said, his eyes narrow. I couldn't believe he'd call me on it, and it was going to blow my plan if I wasn't working at Plan 9 any more.

A few people had noticed the argument, and a crowd was building at the doorway. I handed Ricky the wad of bills for the door, and his eyes widened, like he didn't expect me to call his bluff. "Lars, wait," he said, as I turned to walk toward my car.

Holy shit, I thought. He wasn't just losing the argument, he was giving me a very public show of submission. In the diagram of relationships I was keeping in my head, that caused some very beneficial shifts. I kept my face straight, but it wasn't easy to keep from grinning at him. "What?"

"It's not that big a deal," Ricky said, holding out the wad of cash. "I need to get back to the board."

I took the money and slid it back into my pocket. "Right. Enjoy the show, Trey."

I ignored the crowd at the door, mostly girls, I noted, and took my place on the stool. Where, I wondered, was Angie?

She showed up about twenty minutes later, and damn if she didn't look good. She had her breasts high, showing a lot of cleavage, a short skirt and fishnets. Her hair was pulled back, slicked with gel or something, and she was wearing more eye makeup than I was. 

She looked a little nervous, but I supposed that would also be in character. "Angie," I said. "Cover's ten bucks."

"You're going to make me pay?" she asked. 

"Yep."

She looked around. There was no one near enough to hear. "Come on, Lars."

I looked at her. "Ricky told me you're here pretending to try to win him back. Also, not to tell people you two are married." 

"Keep it down," she whispered.

I glanced up and down the street, and into the club. We were fine. "I don't care if you two are playing out a sexual fantasy, or you're a secret agent. If you want your story to stick, pay the damn cover."

She did, and I stamped her hand while she glared at me, and then sat back and watched the ripples through the crowd as she was recognized by a few people. I glanced back to the soundboard to see if Ricky had seen her. He noticed me looking and I nodded in her direction. He spotted her, nodded back at me, and I sat on my stool to wait it out. 

Angie hung out after the end of the set, sipping one of our beers. I'd seen her like that four years ago, waiting for Ricky to finish in the office, talking with whoever else was still here. 

"Who is that?" Trey asked, staring at her. He was young, unsubtle and close to drooling.

"Angie Grissom. Used to be a regular." I put a shovel full of cans and bottles in the garbage can.

"That's Angie the Slut?" To his credit, he kept his voice down.

"Popular lady in her time."

"I didn't think she'd be hot. You think I could, you know?"

"Doubt you'd have a chance. I don't think she likes twinks."

"Twinks?" Trey asked, pulling his stare off her to look up at me. "What do you mean?"

"You, son, are a twink. Young, underage, cream-filled center." I shoveled up more trash. "Go help the band load out."

I took one of the trashcans out to the dumpster and saw Brian lounging on the corner again. Trey was very careful not to let himself be seen making whatever switch he was making. I was looking for it as I finished my routine, and hadn't caught it, but they weren't done yet. When I put the shovels away I noticed two things. Angie was still sitting by the soundboard, and Blue was on the couch again. I decided to tackle the easy problem first.

"What are you still doing here?" I asked Angie. 

"Waiting to talk to Rick."

"And what makes you think he wants to talk to you?" It was easy to sneer at her. "Go home."

"I'll wait," she said, but she looked uncomfortable.

"Make yourself useful, then. Find out what's going on with Blue." I pointed to the couch.

"Solve your own girlfriend problems," Angie said, going for snotty and almost making it. She must have been out of practice.

"I think she's on something," I said quietly, but using a tone of voice that would be heard as insulting if anyone was paying attention. I looked around as Angie hopped down and sauntered back to the chill space. Trey had been paying attention, and he turned back to the drum case he was supposed to be packing.

I got a beer, the first one of the night, and cracked it in the sound booth, watching from the extra height. The band was almost packed up, and one of them was at the door to the office, probably getting paid. Angie was crouched down next to Blue, but Blue wasn't responding. Fuck, was my first thought, but then I saw the opportunity.

I looked outside. Brian was still there. He wasn't going to like this. I walked up to him and said, "Take Blue home, please."

"What's up?"

"I think she's tripping. Intensity." I handed him my keys. "Take my car."

"Can you drive a bike?" he asked.

"Yeah." Barely.

He handed over his keys, glanced up to see if the street was clear and asked, "Come by later?"

"No." I turned away, not waiting to see his expression. When I went back inside, Angie and Ricky were talking, about five feet of distance between them. Blue was still on the couch, and I put down my beer and bent to pick her up. She wasn't that big. I carried her out the door and gave her to Brian. "Take her to the ER, or take her home, whatever you think is best." 

I turned away to see Trey staring at me open-mouthed. "That's the cop," he whispered loudly. "What the fuck?"

I grabbed Trey by the arm and dragged him away from Brian and Blue, around the corner into the darkness of the alley next to the building. I shoved him against the wall. "I told you to keep that shit out of here."

"And you told me you didn't want the cops connecting it to Plan 9."

"Dude, I just did the right thing. Responsible club owner and all that. He knows I know he's a cop, but he doesn't know that the rest of you do. He won't blow his cover by making this police business, not if it only happens once." I shook Trey. "I told you to keep that shit out of here. Where did she get it?"

"She must have brought it on her own. I sold her five." He tried to shake off my hand. "I would have taken her home, taken care of her. I was planning to do it the other night when you chased me off."

"Why?"

He got quiet. "Say it," I said.

"They say girls want it, you know, at the end of the trip."

"It?" I asked, realization dawning. If he was using Intensity to get laid, he was more of a shit that I realized. "You asshole." I let go of him and stepped back. "I should let Ricky ban you."

"Don't."

My fists balled. "It's called rape, you little bastard."

He raised his arms to protect his face, but I wasn't going to hit him there. I punched him in the gut, just once, but hard, and he doubled over and slumped on his side the weeds. I put my boot next to his head and slid the toe under his jaw. "Look at me, Trey."

He opened his eyes, grimacing with the pain.

"Strike two," I said, and walked away.


	20. In which chivalry wears eyeliner

I looked at Brian's bike. It had been years since I'd been on a motorcycle, and I was very glad I'd only had part of one beer. I put on one of the helmets, then heard my cell phone ring. I took it off again to answer, knowing it could only be Brian. "Yeah."

"You need to get over here," he said. I could hear Blue in the background, hysterical. "I can't," he said. "I just can't."

"Can't what?"

"I can't give her what she wants and she's freaking out. I told her you sent her home with me, but she doesn't believe me because I won't—"

He didn't have to finish the sentence. "Hand her the phone." I heard her crying get louder. "Blue. Blue! Listen to me. It's Lars."

Her answer came in short bursts between breaths. "Lars. Come over, please. This guy, he won't help me. I thought you would take care of me. I don't want him. He won't do it. Please, Lars."

I cursed Trey. "I'm on my way, Blue. Try to get a hold of yourself. Do you have a vibrator?"

"Yeah, but I don't want that. It's not enough."

"I know, baby. I know. I'm on my way. You do what I tell you, okay?"

She took a breath. "Okay."

"You get that vibrator. Give it to Brian, and he'll take care of you until I get there, okay? Do what he tells you, all right?"

"Okay." She sounded unsure, but if she would do what I said, she'd be all right until I got there. Brian, too.

"Give the phone back to Brian."

After a second I heard his voice. "What did you do?"

"Look, you need to help me out here. She's going to get a vibrator." Brian groaned, but I didn't let him talk. "It's not what you think. I want you to get her to lie on her stomach and use the vibrator on her neck and shoulders."

His voice was quiet, almost strangled. "It looks like a bunny."

I didn't have time for this. "Are you a big brave federal agent, or what? It's a vibrator. I'm not even asking you to put it in her snatch." 

He coughed. "Neck and shoulders. Right. Jesus! She's taking her clothes off."

"Deal with it. Anywhere that works."

"Don't say snatch," he said, and I swear I could see him pale, even through the phone.

"It's just a God damned pussy, for crying out loud, and I said neck and shoulders to focus her mind elsewhere." I had a flash of memory from that night with the Sergeant. "If it's not enough, spank her."

"What?"

"Tell her you're going to do it, and tell her she'll like it. Swat her two or three times, that's it, unless she asks for more."

"Are you sure about this?"

"It should hold her until I get there."

"What are you going to do then?"

"What do you think?" I said, and closed the phone.

I took a few minutes to remember how to operate the motorcycle, and it wasn't the smoothest ride, but it was almost four in the morning. No one saw, but it took me half an hour to make a fifteen-minute drive. 

One of Blue's housemates was up, the girl who'd been behind Blue in line at Plan 9, wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe. "Thank god you're here," she said. "I don't know what's going on in there."

I could hear soft moaning and then a slap, followed by a cry, as much pleasure as pain.

"She's tripping on something called Intensity. If anyone offers it to you, well, I'm the last person to drag up old anti-drug campaigns, but just say no. That shit's bad stuff."

"There's someone with her. Someone I don't know."

"I know who it is, and it'll be okay." I touched her shoulder. "Go on back to bed, if you can."

"Okay. I'm glad you're here. She hasn't talked about much else lately."

Holy fuck, I thought. The last thing I wanted was to be the object of Blue's desire. I opened the door to Blue's room and found her over Brian's lap. He was moving the pink vibrator over her neck, up across the shaved parts of her scalp and around her face. She leaned into it, a deep, constant noise coming out of her throat, then squirmed and thrust her ass up. It was red. Brian ran his hand over it, then swatted her, and I heard that cry again.

"Hi," I said.

He looked up at me. "I can't keep this up."

"I know. I'll take it from here."

"Are you going to—"

"Fuck her. Probably." I tried not to think about what I'd said to Trey, but I added, "If she wants me to."

Blue started to whine and push her ass up again, and Brian gave her a swat. I could tell his heart wasn't in it. "She doesn't know what she wants," he said.

I knelt down by her head. "Blue? Baby, it's Lars."

She butted her head into mine. "Lars, Lars, do it to me, please."

"Do what? You want me to take over the spanking?"

"Yes. No. What you did."

She seemed much farther gone than last time. "Blue, did you take two?"

She nodded.

Shit. "What if I said I wasn't going to fuck you because you're not in your right mind?"

"No!" she howled.

I looked up at Brian. He said, "Funny how the tables are turned."

I winced. I barely remembered last night. "Was I this bad?"

"You weren't taking no for an answer, but I think you were just drunk."

"Can you stay?" I asked.

His jaw tightened once before he answered. "I don't think I want to watch, and I shouldn't be here in the first place."

"I know, but—" I looked at Blue, who had taken the vibrator in her mouth. "Look, if you help me, maybe I won't have to." I cursed myself for being a wimp. All I had to do was fuck her ass, and then be a jerk to her over the next few days so she'd take the hint, and that would be it. Brian was a complicating factor, as was my own damn conscience. I shook my head thinking that Trey had given her the doses to get her to this state. There was no way Trey could have handled this.

Blue lifted her hips to beg for another swat and this time I gave it to her, then rubbed the red mark. I reached my other hand to her mouth, touching where she sucked the vibrator. "Let go, Blue."

She pulled her mouth off, and Brian turned it off and handed it to me. "Get her on the bed." He helped me arrange her, and she complied like a rag doll, whimpering and leaning into every touch

"You can go if you want," I said to Brian. "I think we'll be all right here." He looked undecided. "Go," I said. "I'm going to stay the night so she doesn't wake up alone, wondering what the hell happened. Leave my keys. Yours are still in the bike. I couldn't figure out how to get them out." 

I looked at him, looked right in his eyes. He looked disgusted and angry, but something else besides. "Lars," he said, but he didn't finish.

"I won't. I'm just going to get her through this, and try to make sure she doesn't do it again."

He nodded, then got out, almost slamming the door behind him.

Blue started demanding more and I touched her, pinched her hard when she seemed to want pain. I couldn't imagine fucking her, even though I'd come over intending to do just that. In all, it was two of the more boring hours of my life. I was careful as I worked her until she told me, "No more." This time she didn't bleed when I took it out. She slumped, exhausted on the bed. And when she asked for me to talk, I read aloud to her from the spy novel next to her bed.

After she fell asleep, I went to the bathroom to wash the pink bunny, shaking my head at the choice of shape. I got Blue under the covers, took off my boots, and lay down next to her. I was annoyingly sober, and my mind ran wheels for another hour before I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of her crying. Daylight streamed in the windows and from somewhere else in the house, music played. I sat up on an elbow and stroked her head. Her Mohawk was crumpled, and her makeup made raccoon patches around her eyes, smearing more with the tears. I probably didn't look any better.

"Good morning," I said.

"What happened?" she sniffled. "There was someone else here. That cop."

"Careful. He doesn't know you know," I lied. "He brought you home and took care of you until I could get here."

"My butt hurts."

"Yeah," I said. "You're probably going to be sore for a few days. There was spanking."

"Oh, man," she groaned. "What did I do?"

I stopped myself from dropping a kiss on her shoulder. "Only the cop and I saw you at your most fucked up. No one fucked you, you didn't give anyone a blow job, and I used your bunny toy to give you what you said you wanted." She started to cry again, and I assumed it was Intensity hangover. "Listen, Blue, that stuff Trey gave you is not good. He knew what it would do to you, and he gave it to you hoping he'd be with you at the end of the trip. What I can't figure is why you took it a second time, and took more."

She rolled enough to be able to look at me, breathing quickly and barely in control, then turned back to the wall. "I liked it. It felt so amazing, and the way you took care of me..." She broke again, sobbing into the pillow.

I sighed. She took it to get me into bed again? That was fucked up. "I hate to kick when you're down, but I'm no knight, and I'm not on the market. I thought we were going to pretend it never happened, and I was fine with that."

"You know," she said, "if you'd been an asshole and told everyone, I would have been fine, but you had to be a fucking gentleman about it."

I was confused. "And why is that bad?"

"Men are dorks," she said to the wall.

"Women are insane. I try to do right by you, and that's bad?"

"I like you too much, okay?"

Oh. I thought for a minute. "And you're like a little sister to me. An annoying little sister, most of the time."

"Please, I have one big brother already, and he's enough." She snorted, and I realized she wasn't crying any more. That was progress. "Not into me, huh?" she asked.

"Not like that, Blue, no." This time I gave in to the urge, and kissed her shoulder. "Although I care about you enough to fuck your ass when you beg for it."

She squealed, angry I think, then started laughing, which was the desired effect. "I take it back. You're an asshole, not a gentleman."

"You bet your sweet ass," I agreed, and she reached back blindly for a slap that missed. "Listen to me," I said. "Serious here. I don't want you taking that stuff again."

"After last night, I don't think I want to."

"How much do you have left?" I hoped her answer matched what Trey had told me.

"Two. I have two more."

"Give them to me, and I'll trade you for high quality Ecstasy. Good stuff with no surprises."

"Two for one," she said. I was happy to hear the mercenary come out again.

"Done. Where are they?"

She sat up, so I stood and let her climb out of the bed. She was trying to be brazen about being naked, so I ignored her and sat down to pull on my boots. She came back with a small re-sealable bag with two pills in it, and held them out. I took them and palmed them while I laced my boots over my jeans, and she put her fingers down to stop me.

"You don't have to go."

"I do." I finished lacing my boots and stood, pulling her in for a hug. She felt good under my hands, small and soft, and on any other day I would have taken her up on the implied invitation to go back to bed. "I'll stop by later with the E," I said. "Don't take it tonight. Give yourself a day or two to get that Intensity shit out of your system."

"Okay."

I stopped by her bathroom and wiped off most of my makeup, and used water to try to repair the combination of helmet and bed head. It was early afternoon, and the library was only open limited hours with the university on break. I'd have to go over there right away if I was going to make up for blowing off yesterday.

I knocked on Blue's door to say goodbye. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked, looking debauched, beautiful, and sad. "Hey," I said. "Go drink a lot of orange juice, and eat something, okay?"

She looked up. "Thank you, Lars."

I crouched down next to her. "I'd say, 'Anytime,' but I really don't want to do this again."

She looked down and nodded. I kissed her on the shaved part of her head, and went to the library.


	21. Lars hates epiphanies

I didn't have time for a shower when I stopped by my house. I reached behind the two-volume set on Jefferson and pulled out the little wooden box that held my stash. I had to blow off the dust before I opened it. There were eight doses of E wrapped in foil, ten hits of acid, and a prescription bottle half full of Vicodin. A tiny plastic bag held about a eighth of gram of speed, and a vial had Ketamine, but there wasn't much left of that, either. A few empty bags lay in the bottom.

I opened the foil and pulled out four pills with apple symbols and put them in one of the empty bags. I dropped the Intensity in with the rest of it, and put the box away. There was just enough time to stop by Blue's house to give her the Apples, and then make it to Plan 9 around load in.

Blue answered the door in jeans and a sweatshirt, her Mohawk lying soft against her scalp, which seemed strange. I guess I'd never seen her in anything casual.

"How are you?"

She shrugged. "Not sitting down much."

"You coming out tonight?"

"I don't think so." She looked at her bare feet.

"Hey," I said, tilting up her chin. "What's up?"

She rolled her eyes and pulled her head back. "I'm fine."

I let it go and fished in my pocket for the bag. "I owe you four hits of E."

She looked at them. "Wow, are these real Apples?"

"I think so. Last time I tried it, it was good clean fun."

"So we're even," she said.

"You drive a hard bargain, lady," I said. "I think you made a profit in the deal. So, no more of that shit Trey has?"

She shook her head, looking down.

"Get some sleep tonight," I said, and pulled her in for a hug. She only came up to my chest, and a rubbed my fingers across the stubble. "Good bands tomorrow. I'll see you then."

"Bye."

I drove from there to Plan 9. There were two cars pulled up on the sidewalk by the door and a van in the street loading zone. Ricky's car was in the lot.

"Hey!" I said, as I walked in the door.

Ricky barely looked up from the sound booth, but the guys in the band called back. I went on with my routine, double checking and fixing what needed fixed. It was all pretty normal, except that Ricky wasn't talking to me. The whole night went like a typical Friday. Brian came in after Angie, and ran his thumb down my hand when I gave him the change, but he was in full cop mask. The only interesting thing that night was watching Angie turning down a steady stream of guys.

When I got home, the only thing I could think about was wanting a shower. I had two nights of club on me, and that was just gross. When I stepped into the house, something felt wrong. There was a low light in my bedroom, which I hadn't seen from the street. When I looked in to check, Brian was asleep in my bed, stretched out on his stomach, naked, feet under the cover, but everything else exposed. It was quite a sight.

I showered and slid into the bed, looking at him for a long moment while deciding what to do. I'd never seen him asleep before, and his face looked young. My mind made up, I pulled at his hip and rolled him onto his back. His body was beautiful, a classic statue, but with hair, and fuck me if I didn't like the hair, the sheer maleness of him. I never thought I had a type beyond pretty, and here he was, proving me wrong.

I ran my hand down his chest, over his abs and along his leg, and he stirred, opening one eye. "Hey," he said. "You don't mind?"

"Hot cop in my bed? Ready to let me have my way with him? How could I mind?"

"Have your way with me?" he asked as if he couldn't believe I'd use such a phrase, but I treated it as a request.

"Why yes, thank you, I will." I licked his nipples, working them until he was breathing hard. He reached for my ears and started working the earrings, making them hurt. I couldn't help but react, and to cover it, I bit him and worked my way down to take him in my mouth. He didn't let me suck him for long before he rolled me over and returned the favor. This wasn't how I wanted to come, so I reached for the lube and handed it to him. "You want me?" I asked, reaching with my free hand to work his nipples again, stroke his cock.

"Jesus, yes," he hissed.

"Make me want it."

He took me at my word, getting me ready with his fingers and teasing until I couldn't wait any more.

I sat up, and Brian moved to follow, but I pushed down on his shoulder to make him lie on his back. "Like this," I said, and straddled his hips. We'd never done that. I bent to kiss him, whispering, "Put it in me," and he reached down to guide himself. I moved back, taking him slowly, then leaned down on his chest without moving.

He stroked my hair, kissing the parts of me he could reach. "You," he said.

I felt that echo, deep, and wondered again where it came from. I bit his jaw and nipped down his neck, breathing the scent of him, tonguing the scratch of his beard. "You," I said, mostly just to fuck with him, or so I thought, but the word felt good.

He blew out a breath as if he'd been holding it, then put his arms around me and pulled me tight. I looked up, pushing to loosen his grip, and kissed him. We started moving then, slow and easy, saying nothing. Urgency built, and then took both of us over.

We didn't move for a minute, until he reached up for a kiss. It was a simple kiss, close-mouthed. Something was going on in his head.

"Shower?" I said after a moment.

"Yeah."

We untangled ourselves, and got under the water. We washed each other quickly, except for my left arm, where Brian spent extra time trying to make the fading marks go away. 

"You sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Really okay," I said, "and I'm damn tired of the question."

He nodded, rubbing hard at the last of the diagrams and equations.

"Something bugging you?" I asked.

"Last night," he said. "Did you?"

"Did I what? Fuck her?" I took my arm out of his grip. "I told you I wouldn't."

"I know. I just, I guess, wanted to make sure."

He wasn't looking at me. "What happened to I trust you?" I asked.

He nodded again, as if to himself. "That was just weird."

"No shit. Never figured Blue for having a bunny vibrator."

He put the washcloth over his face and tilted his head back. "Never mention it again."

Why do we have these epiphanies in the shower? I thought, and said, "You've never fucked a woman, have you?"

He pulled off the washcloth. "What? Of course I have."

"She had to jump you, though, didn't she?" I was trying not to laugh. "Ever eaten pussy, or cared if you even got to second base? What about the girlfriend back home, huh?"

I wasn't ready for the response he gave me. "She broke it off. I'd been planning to ask her to marry me."

"What?" Fucking hell, I hated these kinds of revelations. 

He turned around and braced his hands against the shower wall, right under the water. I had a few moments to admire the muscles on his back, to distract myself from what he might be about to say, before he spoke. "I was later getting here than I wanted to be on Wednesday because I took Janine out to dinner to tell her I'd be gone on a case for a few weeks."

So the girlfriend had a name. "And?"

"She asked me if I was seeing someone else down here. She said I'd been different since this case started."

I reached around him, turned off the shower and grabbed a towel. "Different how?" I let him drip for a few minutes, then started drying his back, crouching down to get his legs.

Eventually he said, "I hadn't, you know, even wanted to kiss her much."

I stood up and leaned in to lick his neck with my tongue flat, dragging the stud, then spoke behind his ear as I dried the spot with the towel. "Missed the barbell, huh?"

I expected him to hit me for that one, but he pushed away from the wall and stepped out of the shower, grabbing another towel to dry his front and arms. "She asked me if I'm gay."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said, What kind of question is that? And she said that I didn't say no, so it must be true."

Oh, boy. "You know, I got news for you. I think you're gay. I mean, you like dick." I started drying myself, starting with my hair.

There was a silence. I could hear him swallow. "Yeah. Well. She wants me to see someone who can fix it. Nothing I said would change her mind."

I looked at him from under my towel, but he was studiously drying his legs. I knew there was some of that stuff out there. Hell, if Dad were alive and had any clue about what I do, he might try put me in some sort of Christian boot camp and re-programming place. "Fix you from being gay?"

Brian said, "Make me straight, yeah."

"Is that what you want?"

"My life was planned out. Marry Janine. Give her a couple of kids. Do my job. Get promoted."

"House in the suburbs, church on Sunday, and all that," I said. I tried to keep my voice neutral, but the sarcasm broke through a bit.

He closed the lid on the john and sat down to dry his feet, and I stepped out and sat on the bathmat, facing him. I kept my damn mouth shut, but I was thinking, You'll also be finding the gay bars and cruise sites when you're on assignment. You'll be giving anonymous blow jobs and fucking random guys.

He looked up at me, having lost any valid reason to keep rubbing his feet with the towel. "Then you happened."

I wasn't sure what he meant. "Life's a bitch, isn't it."

That earned me a snort and a glare. "Do you even care?"

"Whether or not you decide to come out is not my problem."

"Do you even know what you said to me the other night when you were drunk off your ass?"

Uh, oh. "I might need some help on the details."

"You were begging to suck me, and I asked if it could be anyone and you'd be begging, or if it was about me."

Shit. What had I said? "I don't think I told you I'd beg for just anyone." 

"All you said was, You."

And the word hit me deep again, and it all came back to me from that night—the empty feeling in my mouth, the need to have him in me, to bring him off and drink him. Not just anyone. Brian. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I looked at him, and he looked back, his expression an even balance of guarded and open.

"So," he said.

"So what?"

He reached out, fingers running down my cheekbone. "You."

"Yep. Me." 

"Don't be an ass." Brian looked away. He sounded tired. It was late after all.

"I am what I am." I tried to show nothing on my face. I was stunned at the implications. I was his first actual person to have gay sex with, someone he knew and not just some unknown trick. This emotion he was showing had to be some weird side effect, some by-product of not being anonymous, of doing things he'd never been able to do before. It couldn't be about me. It couldn't mean feelings.

He stood up and offered a hand to help me up. "I should go."

I let him help me up, and stood, stiff. He reached for my face, stretched up to kiss me. I intended it to be a short goodbye kiss, but he grabbed the back of my head and made it a real kiss, the kind that would lead to sex if we had anything left. I gave in, dropped my towel, and wrapped my arms around him. It was skin on skin, all the way down. I had no idea what to think.

He eventually broke the kiss and leaned his head on my shoulder. "I'd rather stay."

"But you have to go." I wanted him out. This was too confusing. "You can't be seen here, and we both know that." It would also fuck up all my calculations.

"Yeah."

He stepped back and gathered his clothes, dressing in the bedroom while I watched, unmoving, from the bathroom. It was his club gear, and I wondered if he'd come straight here after the show.

"Where's the bike?" I asked.

"Around back." He shoved his feet into his boots and stood up. 

"No chaps? The chaps are kind of hot." It was something to say. I had no idea what to say.

"Just for long rides. See you tomorrow, freak?"

"Sure thing, officer." Brian was giving me some distance, and I needed it. I didn't move until I heard the front door close.

I lay on the bed, listening to his motorcycle start, rev, and then roar. I heard him spin out next to my bedroom window, and I'd probably find a deep tire gouge in the morning, if I bothered to look.


	22. In which Lars takes Intensity

Angie came in early, before the bands started. She had either kept all her club clothes or done some careful shopping. Nothing looked too new, and it all fit her like a second skin. She looked hot, and I told her so, not making it sound like a compliment.

"And who are you trying to impress?" she asked me. I had on a black mesh shirt, the torn jeans with black boxer briefs visible underneath, and my boots that buckled up the sides, all the way to my knees.

"You know me," I answered. "Always a fashion plate."

I stopped by the bathroom before opening the front door and looked in the mirror. My eyes were lined as usual, but I'd stained my lips with red, which I hadn't done in a long while. Maybe that was a bit over the top, but I looked good, and I knew it.

Later when the crowd started to come in I spotted Blue in line about six people back. It seemed to be a night for dressing up. She was wearing a corset, which I'd never seen her do. She didn't seem entirely comfortable in it, but she did it justice. The girl with her was the fuzzy-bathrobe roommate, looking very different in a naughty schoolgirl outfit of thrift store chic. I wondered for a moment if some memo had gone out to make an extra effort.

When Blue handed me her money, she didn't look up. I closed her hand around the bills. "On me." She still didn't look at me, so I kissed her on the shaved part of her head, and said, "It's okay."

She said, "Don't be nice to me, okay? You were never that nice to me before."

"Blue, I'm not nice to anybody." I slid one of the bills out of her hand and then stamped the back of it. "See, you paid. Long line, get moving."

Her roommate glared at me. "Don't mess with her."

"Never intended to. But, road to hell, and all that." I stamped her hand and looked down her top—another advantage of being tall.

When the line cleared out I saw Brian down on the corner. He stubbed out a cigarette and ambled toward me, and I stood and walked toward him. He was wearing his trench coat, which had to be a bitch on the motorcycle. I looked at his hands, and he wasn't wearing the rings. "Carrying?"

"Yep."

"Then you're not going in."

"I know." He seemed tense. He looked me up and down and snorted.

"Why?" I asked. "Why are you carrying tonight? These aren't Turner's bands."

"I felt like it." He said it in a flat voice, not looking at me. 

I bit my tongue around the first thing that popped into my head, something to the effect of wondering why he needed to make himself feel like his dick was bigger. Something was bothering him. I put my hands in my pockets, feeling the wad of bills on one side and the thin plastic of the bag holding the two hits of Intensity on the other.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Not the time or place, Lars."

I nodded, and noticed some kids pulling into the parking lot. I went back to my stool by the door, carded them, and took both their money and the beer they were trying to bring in. They complained, but I said, "You're underage." They knew better than to fight it. I stayed on the stool through the rest of the set, sipping the confiscated beers. My mind was on the reading I'd done in the library that day, trying to pull together ideas for a dissertation that wouldn't bore me. I had to meet with Professor Robinson in less than a week, and I needed some concrete options if I was going back to school. 

Two hours later the third band was about half way through the last set of the night, so things were quiet at the door and crowded inside. About a dozen kids were hanging out on the street, but they'd already paid. I went in and up to the soundboard to stash the remaining confiscated beers. I pulled the plastic bag out of my pocket. If I timed this right, I could get through load-out before the Intensity hit. If it was like E, I'd have about an hour before I was useless.

Ricky looked at me. I showed him the bag in my palm. He picked up on it right away, and shook his head. "Why?"

"Want to know." I needed to know how Intensity felt, and how I would act while on it.

He nodded, unsurprised.

I weighed almost twice what Blue did, so I took both, downing the pills with beer during the last song.

By the time the bands were loading out, I could feel something. I didn't feel like talking as I shoveled up the bottles. It was all a metaphor for the shit I needed to clean up in my head. Each bottle, each can represented something, if only I could figure it out, tease out the bits in my head that made it looked so trashed, and just shovel them up and give me clear space to move. When I went out to clear the crap off the street and sidewalks, Brian was still there. I worked my way toward him, filling a trash bag by hand, stopping now and then to read something portentous on a label.

Please Recycle sent me off on a different tangent. Rather than shovel up all the bad and stupid shit in my brain, how could I melt it down and re-use it? I started crushing the cans in my hand before putting them into the bag, imagining every stupid thing in my brain as subject to remodeling. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Melt it all and burn off the impurities.

Then a bottle of Rogue's Dead Guy Ale came into my hand, and I stared at the laughing skull. I was going to die eventually anyway, so what did it matter? I was a dead man walking. I was a rogue. This bottle said it all. Do whatever the fuck you want because you're dead anyway.

That's when the war started.

There's no way to really describe it, but there began an all out battle in my head between the Dead Guy and the Live Guy, each of them using as ammo all the trash I'd been viewing as pieces of my life and self. They made beer bottles into Molotov cocktails and filled cans with rocks, all of it lobbing back and forth, fighting it out.

The Dead Guy fought dirty, but the Live Guy had better tactics.

It felt like a long time before something outside my broke through noise of war. I heard Brian and Blue having a heated argument. I realized I was leaning against the wall of the club, the trash bag at my feet. I was vaguely pleased it hadn't opened and spilled me out across the sidewalk. Their words started to come through.

"I know what this is like. I can get him home and take care of him." Blue didn't quite yell.

"No." Brian sounded firm, angry. "I'll take it."

"You'll take him to the hospital, or something. That's not what he needs. He'll freak out there."

"He's hardly moving," Brian said. "He wouldn't even answer me." It was as close to panic as I'd ever heard him. Live Guy and Dead Guy declared a ceasefire so they could listen.

Blue was saying, "…but he's just inside his head. Pretty soon he's going to need someone who can—" She couldn't say it.

"What?" Brian said, his voice low, and now he sounded dangerous. "You and that pink bunny of yours?"

"Well, you're not going to do him!"

I wondered what Brian would say to that, but he was saved by Angie. "What's going on with Lars?"

"He's on something," Brian said. 

"It's some new stuff," Blue said. "I've tried it. He's going to have a rough time pretty soon, and I know how to handle it."

"Intensity?" Angie asked. I heard Angie's shoes move away, and heard her call for Rick. They had a short argument I couldn't make out, then Ricky was out with us. "Thanks, Blue, but go home. We'll take care of this."

"You don't know what to do!" she argued.

Angie said, "Honey, I've seen this stuff before. It's been all over D.C. for a couple of years. I know what to do."

"You would," Blue said, and she was even more angry. "I've heard all about you."

"Then you know I can handle anything he needs." I was proud of Angie for keeping her cool.

"So much for you trying to get Ricky back."

I heard Ricky chuckle. "Who said I'm not going to help?"

The mental image of a threesome with Angie and Rick did nothing for me, but the Live Guy seized the new ammunition. They were fighting over me. I was worth something to them. Dead Guy came back arguing that they all just wanted to fuck me because I looked so hot tonight, but it was lame and I knew better. Dead Guy resigned the field for the moment, but there was still a mess of cans and bottles and spent ammunition in my brain. I shook my head to clear it, but only scattered the debris.

"Lars?" It was Brian's voice.

"Blue?" I said, and the effort of her name made a path for the rest of the words. "I know you think you can take care of me, but you can't."

"I'll do what you need. I know what it feels like!"

I leaned down, hands on my thighs and bringing my face closer to Blue's, hoping Ricky would forgive me, that Brian would understand. I swept together some of the garbage in my head and made a construction like a huge robot made of trash, something to speak lies for me and get me through the next five minutes without blowing Brian's case, Angie's cover, or my own plans. "You know what S and M is?"

"Yeah." She swallowed. "Is that, is that what you need? I'll do whatever you need. You can spank me again, if you want."

"Blue, I submit."

"I can hit you."

"I already have a master." I could hear Brian's feet shift, but the figure made of garbage was ready with the lie. "Ricky knows what to do. He doesn't—" I had to leave Ricky his heterosexual credentials. "It's not sex for him, but he'll do what I need."

"Lars?" Ricky said, "I thought we weren't going to take that out of the back room."

He followed my lie, and I loved him for it. "Sorry, master," I said.

"You'll have to be punished." Ricky said.

I looked Blue in the eyes before dropping my head. "I'm already in position, Master."

"You do not decide when and how, do you?"

"No, Master." 

"Go inside and wait for me in the office. I want to talk with Blue," Ricky said. "Angie, go with him."

Angie led me into Plan 9, but instead of the office I went to the couch in the chill space. The trash construction in my head, the liar who could speak for me fell apart, and after the cans and bottles finished rolling, my mind was still.

After a few minutes, I heard Brian and Ricky come in.

"Thanks," Brian said.

"It was his idea. I thought it was brilliant, but I don't know if Blue will keep it to herself." Ricky laughed. "What's going to happen to my reputation?"

I heard Angie's shoes click the floor as she joined them. "You'll be fine. Lars will be seen as the freak of Nature, but that's nothing new. Nothing about Lars would surprise anyone, except maybe finding out he was a closet Republican."

Ricky snorted. "He's something else."

"That he is," said Brian.

I wanted to tell them I could hear them, but it seemed like too much effort.

"You know, I don't think he knows that this place would never have made it without him."

"What do you mean?" Brian's question almost sounded sharp. I wanted to laugh. I didn't believe Ricky either.

"He has a way with people. He set this tone that the kids had some responsibility for keeping the space open, that if they gave the cops attitude, or did anything to cause us problems, we'd get shut down. I don't think I could have done that without coming off like a jerk."

The Live Guy popped his head up again, and shot a bird at the Dead Guy.

"Hey," Angie said. "He'll be all right. I assume the bit about you whipping him wasn't true."

"What do you think?"

"I think I don't know how we're going to get him through the next part of the trip," she said, "unless we're willing to, you know—"

My mind kicked on. "No."

Three voices said, "Lars?"

Another figure formed out of the garbage to lie for me. As it sat up, so did I, and looked at Brian. "You have an extra helmet?" I already knew the answer.

He nodded.

"Take me for a ride. Wind. Speed."

"You got it."

"You sure about this?" Angie asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I was talking to Brian."

"It's okay," Brian said.

I stood up to follow him out, not touching him even though I wanted to. In a few minutes I'd be plastered against his back. I stopped next to Ricky. The garbage figure in my head fell apart. I could speak the truth now. "Thanks."

"Any time."

"I know. Like a brother, man."

He half-punched my shoulder in response. "Don't take that stuff again, you jerk."

"Yeah." I followed Brian out to the bike, feeling heat and glow where Ricky had punched me. This was going to be a rough ride.


	23. In which there is blood

I took the helmet off the bike and turned it over in my hands.

"You're not wearing much," Brian said. "If we wreck, you'll be hamburger."

"I don't really want to go far. Take me home."

"And then what?"

I didn't answer, just settled the helmet on my head. I waited for Brian to start the bike, then swung my leg over to sit behind him. I touched him everywhere I could, and it was warm and good and not enough. The vibration of the bike was like a long tease

When we got to my house, he drove the bike directly to the back, and I let us in the kitchen door. I dragged him to the bedroom and stripped, the cold edges of the boot buckles causing my fingers to tremble, the rough denim coming off my thighs like rakes of fire. I needed more. I needed hands and mouths and skin, and damn it, I needed Brian.

He stood in the doorway. He'd watched me pull off my clothes without even taking off his trench coat. I threw him the lube.

"That what you need?" he asked.

"It's a start."

"Hands and knees, then," he said. I did as he asked, and he walked up to the nightstand and pulled a condom out of the drawer. He was close to my head, and he unbuckled his studded club belt and opened his jeans, pushing enough out of the way that I could see his dick. It wasn't hard. "Go to work," he said.

I loved sucking him, and had to be careful not to do it too hard. He warned me off a couple of times when I was too rough, but this was worse than that drunk blow job in the chill space at Plan 9. When he was hard I pulled him as deep as I could down my throat, the stretch and discomfort turning into something I needed that didn't hurt enough. He stepped away, saying, "That's enough of that." He got on the bed behind me, poured cold lube on me, and worked it in. I was nowhere near ready when I heard the condom wrapper, the sound of him slicking himself. He shoved in, and I screamed into the pillow.

It was amazing how my brain knew this was pain, but interpreted it as something else. Not just pleasure, but a necessity. I understood now why Blue acted the way she did. If someone had put a vibrator near my head, I'd have sucked it, too. I wanted Brian to spank me like a porn movie, but all I could say was, "More."

"Me?" he asked, "Or just anybody."

I couldn't believe he would ask me that. "Fuck you," I said. "Fuck you."

"I think I'm the one with my dick in your ass," he said.

"Fuck you for even asking that question."

"I don't know, Lars. Blue would have taken me that night."

"Don't be so sure."

"Would you be happy with Blue and her stupid bunny? Would you be happy if Ricky really would whip you?" He still wouldn't move. "Would that be enough? Don't lie to me."

I couldn't lie. I couldn't construct one of those trash creatures in my head to lie for me, either. That part of the trip was over. "Right now, if it was all I could get, yes," I groaned. "Please. I need something. Move. Touch me. Hit me. Please."

He swatted my ass. It stung, and after the sting faded, I wanted another. "More. Please."

Brian hit me again on the same spot, grabbed my hips and started to rut in a way he never had before, sending waves up from my center to my brain. I reached down to jack myself, and he hit me again, but he didn't tell me to stop. I could feel his trench coat on my legs, the edge of his zipper and the ends of his belt catching on my thighs. 

He was muttering, and I could only make out snatches. "Goddamn freak…. Why'd you take it? …the hell is wrong with me? …idiot… …someone so smart be so stupid…"

Brian had loosened the death grip on my hips, and I could slam myself back on him. He hit me again, harder this time, and I came without warning in a blinding flash like nothing I'd ever felt before, spiking up to the base of my skull.

"That's what does it for you, freak? Being hurt? Being on your knees for me? Or just being on your knees."

The last wasn't a question. He grabbed me again, gripping hard enough to bruise, which I liked. Then he slowed, changed angle a bit, and did that thing he had done the first time he fucked me, jabbing right where it counts. I came again in minutes, almost as intense, as much pain as pleasure, but in the state I was in, the pain was twisted into something else. Even the scream felt good as it tore out of my throat. 

Brian leaned forward, his hand on the side of my head, forcing it down to the pillow. He pushed me down and fucked me like a dog, relentless and angry. His trench coat covered both of us, brushing my flanks, the buckle on the sleeve grazing my neck. I could feel each of his fingers, in my hair, across my face, his thumb digging into my chin. When he came his voice was loud in my ear, cursing himself, cursing me.

He collapsed on my back, and I spent a moment feeling where every bit of cloth or skin or stubble touched me. I realized that the hard thing digging in below my left shoulder blade had to be his gun, and I shivered. I started to move under him, and Brian hissed, moving off me. I heard him curse again as he pulled off the condom. "I hurt you. There's blood."

"Good," I said, although I knew better than to think internal tearing was good. "Hurt me more, please." I looked over my shoulder and watched as he zipped himself.

"Can't fuck you again," he said, not looking at me.

"Don't need that." I wasn't sure what I needed, until he started to buckle the belt. "That," I said. "Stop."

"What?"

"The belt. Remember, on the phone? You're pissed off at me. I know you are. Punish me."

I heard it pass every belt loop as he pulled it off, a sound that had deep roots in my brain, but I didn't hear Dad's voice saying, Come here, son. Instead I heard Brian asking, "Are you sure?"

"Please."

"Stretch out on the bed," he said. "Put your arms over your head." His voice was low and tightly controlled.

I lay flat, rubbing my skin against the rough bed cover. I slid my hands under the pillow and gripped the edge of the futon.

He laid the full length of the belt over my ass, and I pushed back against it, begging the way that Blue had. He pulled back and swung, hitting me with the wide leather, weighted down by the studs. I don't know what kind of noise I made, but it hurt my throat, which only added to the deep satisfaction of it. I rode the sensation for a few minutes, until it faded. 

I lifted my ass. "Please."

This time he hit my thighs and the pain was worse, which made it better, but it didn't last. "Please."

"Goddamned freak," he muttered, and he swung so hard I could hear the whistle in the air, and then my lower back exploded. My scream was long, loud, but it was Brian who said, "Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus."

This time the pain didn't go away, but it changed, centered over my right kidney. I made noise with every panting breath.

"Lars. Lars! Snap out of it! You're bleeding. I hit one of those things under your skin, and it broke through. I can see the metal, and you're bleeding."

The goat's head subdermal. I started laughing.

"This is not funny! None of this is funny, you Goddamned freak."

I tried to get hold of myself, arching up into the pain, but I couldn't stop laughing. "Antiseptic, bandages. In the bathroom," I managed to get out.

I heard him rummage, felt the supplies land on the bed, and then heard the sound of cloth as he took off his trench coat. I was still laughing, and if I twisted the right way, I could make it hurt, send another wet ooze down my side. "What is so God damned funny?" he asked, and I felt a towel on my flank, swiping at the trickles of blood.

I swallowed and didn't answer his question. I fought to get my head together enough to help him deal with this. No, it's not funny, I told myself. "You're going to have to take it out." Yes, it's funny. I started to laugh again.

"What? That's it. I'm taking you to the emergency room."

"You don't want to have to explain this, do you, officer?"

"Shit." 

"It won't heal," I said, "unless you take it out. Pretend it's a bullet and you're a field medic. Badass federal agent should be able to handle that."

"Jesus, Lars, this is bad." He sounded worried, but not panicked any more, which was good. "I don't have the right stuff for this."

"Improvise. I have some forceps in the bathroom," I told him. "Sterilize them with alcohol, and pull the damn thing out. There are razors, too, but they may be old." I twisted into the pain again. It was beautiful, and I moaned and laughed again.

"Stop that," he said, and left. I heard him in the bathroom, washing his hands for a long time. I had plenty of time to get my amusement under control.

"Talk to me while I do this," Brian said. "Tell me why it's funny that I fucked up so bad."

"What?" I had to laugh again. "This is not about you. That's not what's funny. You didn't fuck up."

"Then what the hell is it?" he asked. Without pausing he added, "This is going to hurt."

He poured alcohol over the wound, and I screamed again, thankful that my brain was so fried on Intensity that I liked the pain and wanted more.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding like he meant it as I panted, riding out the waves. When I had my breath back he asked, "Why is this funny?"

I bit my lip to keep control and said, "You beat the Devil out of me, something my dad tried to do for years." I gave up and started laughing. 

He didn't answer, and as I wound back down, I heard the sound of a package opening. "I found scalpels," he said "What the hell were you doing with those?"

"Don't ask, don't tell," I said.

He grunted, then said, "Your dad used to beat you, so you put Satanic symbols under your skin after he died?"

"There's more to it."

"I'm sure. Ready?" he asked. "I'm going to cut around some of it so it slides out easier." His voice sounded steady. I felt the blade and then the pull. Then something else pulled, and I screamed. "Jesus!" he swore. "The horns are a problem."

I moaned through the deep, painful tugging, wanting it never to stop. After several minutes he said, "Got it."

He put it on the nightstand where I could see it, metal and gore glinting in the light. "Now what do I do?"

"Pull the skin over as best you can, pack it with antibacterial ointment, and put a bandage on it. There should be some butterflies to hold it closed. It shouldn't be deep."

"It's not, but it'll take pressure to stop the bleeding. It's going to scar like a bitch."

He bandaged me, and I pushed back onto his hand to make the wound hurt, to stop the blood.

"Tell me why you got these things put under your skin, freak," Brian said. There was something different in his voice, something that wouldn't take any excuse or delay.

"Yes, officer."

"Tell me, freak."

"I kind of lost it after my dad died," I said. "You know my mom died when I was ten."

"Yes."

"You know how she died?" I asked. 

Brian shifted on the bed to get better leverage on the wound, and I talked with my cheek resting on my arm. "Yes," he said. "Public record. She hung herself with an extension cord."

"But you don't know why." I pushed up into his hand, using the pain, the pleasure of it, to steady myself.

"Enlighten me, freak."

Here we go. "Jesus told her to."

"What?" That broke the command voice.

"She killed herself because Jesus told her to," I said, then added, "officer."

"Jesus," he swore, and then laughed once.

"Yep. Jesus. I think she was probably schizophrenic, but no one ever knew she wasn't just regular crazy." I bit my tongue to stop laughing, and it felt good.

"So you started worshiping Satan, freak?"

"No, sir," I said. "But I figured if Jesus wanted my whole family dead, I should check out the competition."

"What do you mean? All of you dead?"

I hated talking about this, so I never did. The melodrama just made it all the more funny, and I couldn't stop from laughing again. 

"I'm missing the humor here."

"Mom hung herself because Jesus told her to. My brother Anders drove a car off a bridge rather than go back to military school. And Dad sent him there because he caught us—" I couldn't finish, but I wasn't laughing any more. I pushed up into Brian's hand where he was still putting pressure on the wound, and tried to make it hurt more.

"And your dad drove off the same bridge with a blood alcohol level so high I'm surprised he knew where he even was," Brian said. 

Damn, but that DEA profile of me was thorough. I twisted to make the wound hurt more, and he noticed. "Stop it."

"Still on drugs, here, officer. I like it."

He got up, and I twisted again, getting another jolt. The next thing I knew he had cuffed my hands to the futon frame. I didn't resist as he tied me spread-eagled with something soft around my knees and ankles. I tried to twist, to get a jolt of pain, but he'd pulled me too tight to do much.

"Tell me, freak," Brian said, and he was back in his command voice. I wondered what was coming next. "Do you need a master? Is that what you want?"

"No, officer. Not all the time." I tried to lift my ass, but the best I could do was to cant my hips back, but at least that made the wound ache a little. It wasn't enough. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Touch me, hurt me, something."

"That's too easy, freak." He stepped up closer to the head of the bed, and I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since we'd walked into my bedroom. He had on his motorcycle boots over his jeans, a black T-shirt, and a gun in a shoulder holster. The look on his face was more than cop mask. It was something deep that I didn't understand. The only thing I knew was that he was probably in complete control here. His words nailed it.

"Right now you need a master, Lars. You're not in your right mind, and you pissed me off so badly that I seriously hurt you. One of us has to be in control, and that's me."

"Yes, officer."

"Say my name."

"Brian. Yes, Brian. Please, Brian."

He ran a thumbnail down the bottom of my foot, light and tickling. I tried to kick against it. "Not enough. More, please."

"You take what I give you."


	24. What happens after

His touch was light. He used his fingers, cloth, the tip of his belt, and even his own short hair. I begged. I pleaded. I figured out that I could get the handcuffs to dig into my wrists, but he caught on to me and retied my hands with something soft, muttering at the damage I'd already done to myself. I cursed him and begged, but in the end I just shut up. It wasn't enough. It was all I was going to get. It had to be enough. It became everything.

All of my attention focused on the contact, and it seemed like I could feel his finger moving every hair he touched on my leg, skating from nerve to nerve on my arms. Eventually I started paying attention to other things, to the rough fabric of the futon cover, the pull of the tape on the bandages over the wound, which itself gave a background ache to everything. Eventually I noticed smells, mostly sweat, but also my own come and blood. Brian's smell was a dark musk, with a leftover sharp note of anger. Listening came last, with the soft whisper of the fabric he pulled across my skin, the rustle of his movements, and his breathing.

"Talk to me, please." I remembered Blue wanting the same thing. I needed it now.

"What do you want me to say?" He was back in his regular voice, but he'd said more by staying silent over the last hour, by not answering when I begged, than any words would have told me.

"What's your job like?"

He snorted. "I can tell you this isn't in the job description." He trailed cloth down my legs, and I didn't shiver. It seemed I was getting back to normal. "What do you want to know?"

"Day to day, between cases, bureaucracy, all that stuff."

"It's boring. You don't want to hear that." He drew spirals down one thigh.

"I do," I said. "And you can stop now."

"You sure?" He rubbed his palm flat up my leg.

"Yeah. Let me up, please. I need to take a leak."

"Hmm," he said. He put his palm over the bandage and pushed.

"Ow! That hurts. Stop it." I started to get an idea of how bad it might be.

He blew out a loud sigh and untied my feet, then my hands. I pushed myself up on all fours, and barely made it. "Oh, crap." This was not good.

"Are you okay?"

I looked at the goat head on the nightstand, black with dried blood. "I'm going to need some help getting up."

Brian helped me to my feet, and after a few steps I waved him off, not wanting him with me in the bathroom. I could barely lean over the sink to wash my hands, and bending down to splash water on my face was not an option. I could feel deep bruises forming on my ass and thighs in addition to the mess on my back and the marks on my wrists. Plus, it seemed I'd pulled muscles straining against the ropes, not to mention the pounding my ass had taken. Something told me it was going to get worse before it got better. There was enough Intensity still left in me to skew the pain, but serious hurt was in my future.

Brian helped me back on to the bed, and it took a while to find a comfortable position, and I ended up on my left side. "So, your job?" I said.

"What do you want to know?" Brian settled himself next to me and I put a hand on his leg, which was the easiest thing to reach. He was still clothed, but at some point he had lost the shoulder holster. I wondered where he'd put the gun.

"Day to day stuff."

"Go to work, sit in my office, file paperwork, go to meetings, go home."

"Plus field assignments," I said.

"Yeah. Some are more interesting than others," he said, and the back of his hand touched my face. "The interagency ones are the biggest pains in the ass."

"Tell me about those."

He stroked my hair and talked for almost an hour, and with questions from me he gave me the details of three cases where he'd worked with the FBI or ATF. He'd been assigned to the Intensity case because of his interagency experience, even though his usual areas were cocaine or illegal hormones and steroids, rather than designer club drugs. It wasn't hard to get him to bitch about the other agencies, to get into policy differences and territorial bullshit. I started seeing relationships in my head, and asked about things he'd never considered, didn't know.

At last he took a breath. "I'm surprised you're not asleep. Bored yet?"

"Nope." It was like catnip. Even tired, I was starting to see possibilities for research.

"Thanks, for, you know, bringing me back to normal stuff."

Huh? "It was interesting," I said.

"Right," he said. "Don't humor me."

I realized what he thought I was doing. He thought I was trying to anchor him back in reality and mundane shit, but I'd been soaking up every detail of what he said, getting ideas. "I might have to spend some time in DC doing research and interviews for my dissertation." I could take my previous work to a whole new level.

"Yeah?" As tired as he was, I could hear that he was interested.

"I'll have to write for funding, but I should be able to dig up a few months of living expenses." I yawned, exhausted and spent. "Laptop. MatLab software."

I almost didn't hear when he said softly, "I could stake you room and board."

I pushed up on an elbow to look at him, and winced. It hit me that the mess on my back was going to take a while to heal. More important, I wondered if he knew what he was saying. "Don't need charity. I can find a funder."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I meant with me, dumbass." 

I did not need a federal agent in love with me. This was not in the plan. I said, "That's a big risk."

He looked at me then, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. He reached out to my eyebrow rings and flicked them. "You'll have to get a haircut, lose the hardware."

"Why, so you can be seen with me? Take me to church?" The sarcasm felt comfortable.

He snorted. "No. So you can get through the door to the people you might want to interview."

"Point." That wasn't something I wanted to think about. "It's Sunday," I said, lying back down. "You planning to go to church?"

"No, I think I'll skip it to stay in bed with my Satanic gay boyfriend."

"Hey! I'm not gay," I said, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. I really didn't like the word boyfriend.

"What was that phrase you used a while back?" Brian said. "Oh, yeah. _You suck cock like a pro_." I could swear he was laughing at me.

"I'm ambisexual, like ambidextrous. I don't discriminate on the basis of genitalia." I didn't want him to think there was anything more to this than sex.

"I should go," he said. His voice sounded resigned.

I couldn't help poking at him. "What happened to staying in bed with your Satanic boyfriend."

His smile was halfhearted. "At the risk of sounding like a girl, we should probably talk at some point." He sounded like he'd rather have teeth pulled, and I agreed. He got off the bed and picked up his shoulder holster from the floor. I watched him put on his gun, then his black trench coat. 

He sat back down on the bed. "Don't ever do that again."

"You got me through it," I said. I rolled on my back so I could look at him. His expression was intent, and I didn't know what to say. He was offering me something, and I wasn't sure what it was, and wasn't sure if I wanted it. I needed to keep him happy, though. "I think this is my cue to say, You." I was surprised at how easily it came out.

"Yep, me," was all he said. He took my hand and kissed the palm. "And don't you forget it."

I heard the motorcycle take off, as quiet in the early morning as a motorcycle could be, and fell asleep.

Pain woke me at about noon. I managed to get up, get to the bookshelf, and reach behind the Jefferson volumes for my stash, and every inch of the journey from bed to living room hurt like a motherfucker. My hands were shaking as I pulled out the Vicodin bottle, and when I had what I wanted, I didn't bother putting the box away. I took the advice I had given Blue, and downed two of the pills with all the orange juice I had left. I was going to need food, too, but the only thing I could stomach was bread. I looked at the loaf I had, and there were green spots on it. So much for that. There wasn't much else in the house, and my car was back at Plan 9, not that I should drive in the condition I was about to be in.

My first thought was to find the cell phone and call Brian, but I knew better. I was going to have to put up with Ricky giving me shit, but at least with Angie here, he'd be in town on a Sunday. He answered on the fourth ring.

"Hey, Lars."

"I hate caller ID."

"So you say. Aren't you supposed to call me master?"

"Fuck you."

"I prefer my wife. How are you?"

"Beat to shit."

"I can imagine," he snorted. "Rough trip, huh?"

"I meant literally."

"What? Did you guys wreck? What happened?"

"Angie there?" I asked.

"She's in my office," he said. "What happened?"

"I never really told you what happened with Blue."

"No," he sighed, "but from what Angie has told me about that stuff, I can imagine."

"I thought I could, too, but the reality was a little more intense."

"No pun intended."

"No." I groaned and swore, and he heard it. It wasn't for the joke. I hurt all over.

"How bad is it, and where's Brian?"

"He went home around sunrise, and it won't be bad as soon as the Vicodin kicks in."

"So are you calling me to complain, or do you need something?"

"My car's back at Plan 9, and I'm not sure I can drive anyway. Can you pick up some things for me?" I hated to ask, but he would do it.

"I'm not buying you beer."

"Orange juice, spring water, bread. Something whole wheat."

"Got it. Anything else?"

This wasn't going to go over well. "Can you stop by the sporting goods store and pick up a pair of black wristbands?"

"Taking up squash?"

"No."

I wasn't going to say it, but Ricky figured it out. "He cuffed you." Ricky's voice was flat. "He cuffed you and beat you."

"Jealous, master?"

"That was funny once, Lars, and you covered our tails, but drop it. He hurt you."

"It's not like I didn't ask for it. I begged, and he's the one who stopped it."

"Angie doesn't like him," he said. "She says he's not sharing information."

"Yeah, well her precious FBI didn't see fit to tell him she was married to one of the surveillance subjects." Ricky didn't say anything. "See, it's never that easy."

I heard him snort before he answered. "No, it's not. I'll be there in about an hour."

"Thanks, man."

I put on some jeans, went back to bed, and my head was pretty fogged up on Vicodin by the time Ricky came and pounded on the door. It hurt to get up, but it was easier with the painkillers. Brian must have locked the door behind him. "You've got a key," I said as I let Ricky in.

"Didn't think I'd need it." He took the grocery bag into the kitchen, and I followed. He'd brought in my newspaper as well. He handed me two wrist bands, not black as I had asked, but rainbow. "Here. Thought I'd spice up your wardrobe." 

"Jerk."

"Good lord," he said when he saw my wrists. They were turning back and blue, and there were scabs. They didn't look as bad as they would in a few more hours.

"You think that's bad, you should see my back." When I saw the look on his face, I regretted trying to joke.

"Show me."

"It's okay." I turned so he couldn't see.

Ricky stepped back and put on his best patrician face. "Show me." I turned around. He didn't say anything for a long moment. "Let me change the bandage."

"He just put it on last night."

"Yeah, and you've soaked it."

I walked back to the bedroom, and he followed. Brian had left the bandages and tape on the nightstand. 

Ricky picked up the goat head and looked at it, then put it back down. "How do you want to do this?"

"Just do it." I leaned with my hands on the wall.

"This is going to hurt," he said as he pulled at the edge of the tape, "but you'll probably like that."

"Ha, ha—Ouch! Fuck." I didn't like it at all.

Ricky grunted and stepped away to toss the old gauze. He came back, put on a fresh coat of antibiotic over the butterfly bandages, took two new sterile pads, and taped them into place. "You're done."

"Thanks."

"It looks bad," he said. 

I turned and looked at him. He was blank-faced and pissed off. "I asked for this, Ricky."

"You were out of your head. He shouldn't have done it. Does he get off on it?"

"No," I said. "He doesn't like hitting me."

"He just beats you bloody because you ask so nicely?" The sarcasm was thick.

I felt defensive. "He stopped when he really hurt me, and spent the next hour driving me out of my skull by not hurting me, no matter how much I begged."

He didn't answer. I walked back to the kitchen and got four slices of bread in a stack. I opened the spring water, alternating bites and long swallows from the jug until my stomach was settled. I'd forgotten Ricky was there until he came into the room as I was finishing the last bites of bread.

"I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"Seriously, are you, you know—" He couldn't finish.

"Losing it again? I don't think so."

"Look, it's just that ever since you started seeing Brian, it's like you're turning back into the guy I first met."

"That Henry Rollins concert," I remembered. "On campus. That was back when the university was the only place to see that kind of thing. So if you thought I was messed up, why hang out with me? Why bring me into Plan 9?"

"Because almost everyone in the room knew you and liked you, and I needed that."

I took two more pieces of bread and bit into them, talking around the food. "You hired me as a face man?"

"You sweep pretty well, too."

"So I'm a cog in your machine. You don't like Brian because you think he's fucking with your system?" The way my brain was fogged, it felt like a major intellectual leap.

Ricky shook his head. "I don't like Brian because of what I see happening to my friend." 

"I told you, some of this is for show. Blue's going to tell people I was tripping last night. It'll get to Trey and from Trey to Turner."

"Right, your brilliant scheme that you haven't seen fit to tell the real secret agents about."

I waved him off with the bread in my hand. "It would change what they do. Turner's going to think I'm a potential ally."

"Do you have any idea what you're really doing?" Ricky asked. 

"Do I ever?" I bared my teeth in a fake smile. "Lars the Great, king of chaos."

"This isn't a game." Ricky said, looking me straight in the eye. There aren't a lot of people who can do that without having to look up. "There's a reason why people like Angie are trained. She was a cop for three years before going into the FBI. Did you know that? They don't even take you without relevant experience, and then they put you through their own training."

I didn't like him questioning me. "And I know nothing about human nature? No, I don't have a degree and a book to my name."

"Don't get sarcastic with me. I don't want this to end in tears."

"Which this?" I asked. "Vicodin head, here. You mean me and Brian, or getting to Shad Turner?"

"I mean all of it." Ricky left the kitchen, and I followed him to the door. "Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks."

"You look like death warmed over."

"It's a fashion statement."

Ricky snorted, but he said, "Whatever you need, just call."


	25. In which Lars gives up more than he realizes

"Bring me pizza for dinner." I said into the phone.

"Kind of hard on a motorcycle," Brian said. "Why don't you get one delivered?"

"Because then I couldn't get a blow job from the delivery boy."

He laughed. "Making assumptions, aren't you." I didn't say anything. "All right, phone one in, and I'll get there about the time it does."

"Can you make a stop for me?"

"What do you need?"

"Beer would be good, but I need some of that wide waterproof tape so I can get a shower."

"Sorry," he said, and let a pause stretch, I guess to remind me what he was sorry for. "Give me fifteen minutes before you phone it in."

"Don't be sorry. I begged for it." I wondered how long he would beat himself up over hurting me. It wasn't like I had any problem with what happened. "What do you want on it?" I asked. "Anchovies and garlic?"

"Jerk. Let's keep it simple. Pepperoni, okay?"

I hung up on him, pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt, which took longer than it should have, then called in for delivery. Brian and the pizza got there at about the same time. He paid the guy at the door and I took the bag so he wouldn't have to juggle. Before we even made it to the kitchen, I fished past the plastic pharmacy bag for a beer. He'd bought something good. "Want one?"

"Yeah." Brian opened the box while I put the bag down, popped the caps off two bottles, and sat down carefully. Brian closed his eyes, but didn't react, and after that we ate like frat boys. I pretended he wasn't glancing at my wrists. 

I was hungry. After four slices I got a second beer, and burped with the first sip. "Excuse me."

"You're excused." Brain was leaning back in his chair, having stopped at three pieces. There was one left. "Go ahead," he said. I ate it more slowly. Brian spun the beer cap under his finger, making a metallic noise on the table. After about half the slice, I was done.

"So," he said.

I didn't want this conversation, either, so I reached for the bag that had the tape. He'd also bought more gauze pads and a fresh tube of antibiotic. "Help me with this?" I asked.

He pushed up from the table and took the bag, walking back toward the bedroom. I got up to follow.

"Lie down," he said, turning on the overhead light. I twinged as I went down. The Vicodin had worn off. He pushed up my T-shirt. "Who changed it already?"

"Ricky," I said, leaning my face on my arms.

"Oh." 

I couldn't see him to try to figure out what that meant. "He brought me some food," I said. I didn't mention the wristbands.

"Ready?" he asked. I could feel him pulling up the tape, and I braced myself, but it wasn't bad. Not as much dried blood, probably. "I want to clean this," Brian said. He left for the bathroom, and came back with a wet cloth. I tried not to let him know when it hurt, and he didn't say a damn word until it was taped over with the waterproof tape. "Shower?" he said.

"Yeah. Meet you in there." I needed a moment to myself.

He moved toward the bathroom, and I went to the bookshelf. The stash box was out where I had left it, and I opened it and took out the Vicodin bottle. There were only about a dozen left, so I just took one.

Brian's voice startled me. "What's that?"

I took a deep breath. "Leftover prescription." I showed him the pharmacy label with my name on it. 

He glanced at it, then over to the open box. He took out the bottle of Ketamine. "I suppose dissociatives shouldn't surprise me. What else do you have in here?"

I reached for the Ketamine, but he held his hand up. I could have reached it, but didn't want to fight him about it, or stretch up, for that matter. "Fine. Dump it if it makes you feel better." I was long done with the horse tranquilizers, anyway. I closed the box and put it back behind the Jefferson books, not caring if he was watching. "For the record, I hadn't opened it for a year."

Brian took the little bottle to the kitchen, and I followed, looking for my beer to take the Vicodin. He got a knife, and pried up the rubber stopper. I watched, remembering the time I'd stood in my living room, stoned on Ketamine, with the music loud, hallucinating the most amazing architecture. I'd tried to get there again, but the last time I'd taken it, it had been nothing more than music I couldn't understand and a clock that moved incredibly fast. I should have been more bothered than I was about him dumping it, but I wouldn't miss it. Brian ran water into the narrow neck, and then shook it out, finally tossing the vial into the trash.

I downed the pill, holding the medicine bottle in the same hand I had my beer. I was planning to put it in the bathroom to get at it more easily. Brian held out his hand. "No way," I said. "These are legit."

Brian brushed past me. He was pissed off, and dropped the Jefferson volumes on the floor, reaching past them for my stash box.

"Hey! No need to take it out on the books," I said. He pulled out the box and opened it. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"What else is in here?" he asked.

I reached for the box. "None of your damn business."

"Drug enforcement is my business." He started poking through the box, and I watched, wondering how he saw it. To me it was just a stash I hadn't touched in a year. To him it was distribution systems and money laundering, and the equivalent of crack junkies killing a neighborhood.

"Careful with the paper." I said. The acid was potent stuff. He wouldn't really trip through skin contact, but he'd feel it if he wasn't careful. Maybe I should have let him, maybe surprise him with a trip through the looking glass so he could know it wasn't all dangerous. 

Brian glared at me over his shoulder and stepped away, and I realized just how much danger there was. I could get my ass nailed six ways from Sunday for what was in that box. The Apples alone could mean several years of jail time. Fuck. What had I been thinking to let him see this? I could tell from that glare it changed the way he saw me. Good, then. What the hell did he think I was?

He shouldered his way past me and walked toward the bathroom.

I made the decision not to fight it. I could replace it all in a week if I wanted to, so I could let him win this one and let him think whatever he wanted about what it meant. I followed him, leaning on the door and watching as he dropped the strip of ten hits of acid into the john. I watched the edges curl in the water. He dumped the amphetamine powder from the bag, which I realized would have come in handy for school, and dropped the Ecstasy, one by one, the noise of each plop sounding final. The empty bags went into the trash. 

The last Ecstasy trip, or the last time I stayed awake on amphetamines for a hundred hours straight—it was a long time ago, but I'd liked having that option hidden behind the books. I could replace it. It didn't matter.

"Happier now?" I asked, sarcastic, but he nodded and handed me the box. I put it next to the bed, and dropped the goat head in it, wondering what sort of weird symbolism that would be if anyone wanted to analyze it. I stripped carefully, trying not to move too much. When I walked back to the bathroom, Brian was still standing there, watching the pills dissolve and the paper shred. He looked up at me, realized I was naked, and his expression said What the hell?

"Shower," I reminded him. I leaned over enough to flush the drugs, and winced.

"Hard to let go, huh?"

"No. My back hurts." It was half a lie.

"Sorry." 

"No, you're not. It's your job, remember?" He was between me and the shower, and I stood waiting for him to get a clue. 

"I meant about your back."

"Fucking hell." I sighed. "Get over it."

He watched the water drain and fill in the toilet, then reached to close the lid. "I don't get you sometimes."

"Yeah," I said, "well, I get you."

"That simple, am I?" He was still looking at the john.

"Not as much as you used to be, as you used to like to think you were." That made him look up. "Me, neither," I said. The minute I said it, I knew it was true. Crap, I didn't even have to get into the shower for the epiphanies any more. Four years of Lars the Great, king of chaos, suddenly felt like it was coming to a close, down the drainpipe with the drugs.

"You have never been simple." Brian reached out and ran his fingers down the middle of my chest, looking at my body, the nipple and navel rings, the leg tattoo. "You're a complicated ball of—something."

"Ah, such vocabulary. Why don't you let me write the books," I said, "and you stick to getting the bad guys." I meant the words to wound, but he either didn't get it, or ignored it. 

"I don't think I get to have both," he said, and I realized he was deep enough in his own issues that mine weren't even on the radar.

"Both what?"

"Both the job, and you." He slid his hand to my hip, looking at where he touched me, not at my face.

Oh, fuck. "This is just a thing." I said, surprised at the bitter taste of the words.

He closed his eyes. "Is that what you want?"

I could feel the Vicodin starting to kick in, and was grateful for the cushion. "I heard what you said when I was tripping. If it's just a thing, you don't have to fuck up your entire life because you like my ass." My mouth was dry. Had to be the drugs. "Someday this case will be over, and you'll be gone. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't bust me for what you just flushed."

"Can't," he said. "No evidence." 

I put my finger under his chin, knowing I was about to be cruel. "Same thing with me. It's just a thing, we flush it when you leave, and there's no evidence. If there is, you tell them you did it to compromise me. You can even add in how gross it was to put your dick in some boy's ass, and say that a blow job is a blow job, if you shut your eyes."

"Is that what you want?" He looked at me, and damn if I didn't see pain. 

I was too tired, and the Vicodin was kicking me too hard to keep up the cruelty. "I don't know," I said, the bitterness cracking into something I couldn't name. "I don't know what I want." I pulled him to me. If he were a girl, he should have cried. Being a guy, I didn't know what he'd do. Me being an idiot, I hadn't followed through and used the chance to push him away.

He slid his arms around me, careful of the bruises and the bandage. "Figure it out, dumbass, because if you don't want me, I'd rather flush it now."

Must be the Vicodin. I rubbed my cheek on his short hair. It felt good. "It would be easier," I said, but I didn't like the way it felt.

He snorted. "Since when do you do easy?"

"Easier for you."

"You know what would make things easier for me?" he asked. "Lay off the drugs."

It wasn't a promise I would make, but I said, "Once was enough with Intensity. I can't figure out why it's got a market."

"Lars," he said, pulling back, but keeping his hands on me. "I'm serious."

"Me, too. That shit is too much." He grimaced at me, and I know he wanted to resolve the stay or go question, but I couldn't do it right then. "Let me get a shower, okay?"

"Wash your back?" He seemed willing to let me drop it for now. I let the Vicodin keep me from caring.

"Sure."

He washed all of me, gentle on the bruises and muttering when he saw how bad they were. He knelt to suck me, looking beautiful with the water streaming down his face and shoulders, and as he kissed me so I could taste myself in his mouth while I stroked him, soap slick. Wearing only towels, we drank another beer while he looked at the Sunday paper and ate the remaining half of the cold piece of pizza. I tried and failed to read a political science article I'd printed from the library. 

When he took me to bed, I fell asleep curled up around him. In the morning he was gone, but there was a Vicodin and a glass of orange juice by the bed.


	26. In which Lars does brilliance again

I walked in to the department office Wednesday morning, wearing a low pair of Doc Martens shoes, plain jeans and a plain black T-shirt, just so Dee couldn't make any rock star comments. My hair was spiked, because it looked stupid any other way, but I'd skipped the eyeliner. The rainbow wristbands stood out, but there wasn't much I could do about that.

"Lars?" Francine looked up from her computer and eyed me suspiciously. "You're early. Again."

"Five minutes," I said. "Wednesday the twelfth, eleven AM, right?

"Yes, well, working from your past history, your real appointment isn't until quarter after. Professor Robinson is meeting with one of the faculty."

I looked at Francine, who merely raised her eyebrows a fraction as if daring me to challenge her. I knew better. "Okay," I said. "Can I go get coffee?"

She held up her mug. "Bring me some, too."

"Two sugars and cream?"

"Milk," she said, "and Equal. I have to watch my cholesterol these days. I had a heart attack last year."

"Francine, I'm sorry." Shit. I really had been out of touch.

"Don't worry," she said. "It was the only thing that convinced the students I might actually have a heart." She raised her mug again, and with a slight deprecating tone said, "Decaf."

I took her mug down to the coffee room. The espresso maker was new, but the coffee service was the same. I poured some decaf for Francine, and made an espresso for myself, warming a paper cup of milk in the microwave for a fake latte.

I brought the coffees back to the main office, and Francine accepted hers with a nod, not looking up from her computer screen. I picked up the Journal of Political Psychology, and paged through it, stopping on an article. 

"You can sit, you know," Francine said.

"I'm fine." I leaned against the wall, drank coffee, and got lost in the text until Dee's voice pulled me out of it. I looked up to see that guy I met in Dee's old office, MacKee, come out of her office. 

"Thank you for your time, James," Dee said, but I knew that lilt and that turn of phrase. It meant something more like Thanks for sitting still while I eviscerated you.

He had an expression like a kid who'd just been grounded, equal measures of sorry and stubborn, until he spotted me. His expression went neutral. "Lars Dahl," he said. "I hear you may be coming back to us."

I bit back a smart remark. "Possibly. Depends upon the good graces of our Chair, I suppose."

"I hope the faculty vote works out," he said. "I look forward to exchanging ideas with you."

"Yes, yes," Dee said. "Come in, Lars." After the door closed, she said, "His notion of exchanging ideas is to repeat his point until you agree with him. God save me from junior faculty who know how the department should be run. They seem to think the school has a secret Swiss bank account with infinite funds." She stopped herself. "Not that I should be complaining to you, mind you. Students should never hear the woes of the faculty."

"How else will we learn what we're getting into?"

"What's that Henry Kissinger line about faculty squabbles being so vicious because the stakes are so low? So true. Nice addition of color," she said, gesturing vaguely at my wristbands. I cursed Ricky, but smirked at Dee as if they were intentional. "Sit, sit," she said.

I didn't want to, but I did, far enough back in the seat of the chair that the edge didn't bother the bruises across my thighs. It had been three days, and they were better, but stretching the wound on my back still hurt too much. I had no idea how I'd handle the stool tonight at Plan 9. Short night on Wednesdays, but still, I wasn't looking forward to it.

"You with me?" Dee said, and I snapped my attention back to her. I'd been off the Vicodin all day, but seemed to have a bit of a hangover from it. "Not a good start, Mr. Dahl." 

"What's this about a faculty vote?" I asked. "I checked the university policies, and I've got a year to finish my dissertation before having to re-take my qualifiers."

Her mouth went into a line. "True. There's been some concern that my advisory relationship with you might color my judgment. A vocal contingent doesn't want you near the undergrads."

"I'm not going to flake out again. Besides, I didn't think you'd let me teach."

She looked at me pointedly. "Do you have a way to pay tuition without it?"

"I can figure something out." It wasn't something I'd wanted to think about.

"And you're empty handed," she said. "What happened to the thesis proposals?"

I tapped the side of my head. "You didn't specify written."

"You've been out of the game long enough not to think I'd want them written?"

She was right, but I couldn't show weakness. I said, "Do you want to hear them or not?"

She gave a dramatic sigh. "All right. Before we figure out how to pay for it, let's see if you have anything worth supporting." 

The first four ideas I gave her were reasonable, based on current literature, but not exciting. She shot them down as I intended. "Last chance," she said, leaning forward. "I hope you're holding an ace."

I smiled. "So, my Master's was based on the idea that office behavior is office behavior, and only the expression changes based on the stakes, right? It's usually more subtle at the top, but just as intense, like that Kissinger line."

"Yes, corner office versus cubical, plus your mathematical modeling based on game theory."

"Right, use the theory of optimal game outcomes based on player behavior. But when you analyze what people really do, the pure game models failed to predict. It brings into question the whole notion in economic theory that we always act rationally."

"You weren't the first person to question that theory. If it were true, advertising wouldn't work," Dee said, dry and sarcastic. "Why are you repeating what we both know?"

"To lay the ground work. What if you change the game theory model two ways? Add in assumptions based on primate behavior—classic monkey dominance behavior—and, get this, information theory."

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing as she gave it some thought. "How does information theory play into this?"

"Mathematics of how information moves, how much information is actually conveyed in communication, and how information can be withheld to give people an incomplete picture."

"So you're proposing to take into account what people know, how they know it, and how they apply it, with the model adjusted by how people feel about their place in the pecking order?"

"Some thing like that," I said.

"That's risky." Dee shook her head. "For a dissertation you'll need real observations, research and test cases."

I was ready for her. "What about federal agencies?"

"What about them?"

I leaned back and stuck out my legs. "Recent changes at the highest levels are forcing cooperation among agencies. They've always been territorial—for jurisdiction, information, budget, credit, you name it."

"So?"

"I have an opportunity for up-close observation of cooperation between two agents of different federal departments. There have already been some interesting things with information flow. I want to use those observations to make a general model, then look at the upper administrations of the agencies and see if the model predicts past and future behavior."

Dee looked at me for a long moment. "How do you have this access?"

I closed my eyes. "This can't leave this room."

"I'm not a lawyer or a priest, Lars."

"Nothing illegal, I promise, but you remember how one of the criticisms of my Master's work was that as the observer I perturbed the system?"

"Yes." She stretched out the word.

I sat up and leaned forward, wincing at the pain in my back. "The subjects don't know they're under observation."

Dee straightened. "I have a mental image of Jane Goodall and the chimps," Dee said. "Did you build a fake office cube as a blind?"

I laughed once. I liked the image. "No, but the FBI and the DEA are collaborating on an investigation that involves Plan 9. I know who both the agents are, and one of them doesn't even know I know." I didn't tell her that I was planning to manipulate all of them. I had my own game of who was going to know what when, of letting people believe certain things, so that Shad Turner would go down in flames.

She looked at me for a long moment, reached into a drawer, and tossed me a marker. "What's the preliminary model?" she asked, pointing at the white board.

I stood and walked over, and diagrammed the refinement of the idea I'd first drawn on my arm. It took a while. "Now you see why I need the wristbands."

Dee snorted once, stood, and picked up a marker. "Now these variables here," she started, and then we were off.

She missed her next two appointments.


	27. In which nothing good happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See note at end for warning.

When I pulled into the lot next to Plan 9, about an hour later than usual, my head was just starting to fog from the Vicodin. I'd waited to take it until after the meeting with Professor Robinson. Even with the fog, my brain was still buzzing with intellectual satisfaction. We'd spent more than two hours going over the models, talking about the research, about the fact that my dissertation could change the field. "High risk, high impact," she'd said, "but since it's you, it'll likely work." She'd smiled and added, "Rock star." Her approval made me felt more confident than ever that my plan for making Turner believe I was an ally would work. I was almost whistling, even though I was going in to face the toilets. I was back. 

Then I noticed the things that were wrong.

There were three cars already parked. One belonged to Ricky, the other was a rental. The third was an old 1970s-era Firebird in mint condition. It wasn't a car you missed, and I'd never seen it here before. The door to the space was just partly open, which was odd, since it was usually shut or open wide. I heard a strange sound, high and steady. I pushed the door open, and froze. I smelled the blood before I figured out what I was seeing.

Ricky lay with his head in Angie's lap, the middle of his chest blown to fragments. The noise came from Angie, not a sob, but a constant keen. There was another body near the door to the office. I walked over to her, not looking at Ricky, but at her face, ugly and wet with all the secretions of grief. 

"Angie. Angie! What happened?" 

The keen ended in an abrupt change of pitch, and she glanced at me and shook her head.

"What happened?" I asked again, feeling myself start to sweat. I crouched down so she wouldn't have to look up, but she kept stroking Ricky's face, her tears sliding down his cheeks and his hawk nose.

"I shot him," she said.

It was then that I noticed the gun by her side. It looked serviceable, governmental. "You shot that guy?" I waved toward the office.

She nodded.

"Why?" I wanted to shake her, but I would have had to lean over Ricky to do it, and I couldn't look at him again. I couldn't look down, I couldn't even look below Angie's face, because there was blood on her shirt.

"He killed— Oh, God." She didn't start the wail again, but she did start breathing too fast and too deep.

I wanted to slap her, like they do in the movies, but my hands wouldn't move. "Angie, don't hyperventilate. Why did he shoot Ricky?"

"It was because of the bands, because Ricky wasn't going to book the right bands any more." The words came out too fast, high and like a question, like she couldn't believe it was the reason.

"Shad Turner sent him?" A chill went through me, like all the sweat drying at once. I looked over at the body by the office. I couldn't see much blood. There was another gun, a big one, and a crowbar. He was here for a threat, and a kneecapping if the threat alone didn't work.

"He didn't say who sent him, just that Rick had to shut down the web site."

It took me a few seconds to figure out the connections, but it sounded like Ricky had started his new business model for touring bands already, or at least talked about it enough that it got back to Turner. I pushed through the fuzz in my brain. I needed more information, more data. Data. "Angie, in order, what happened?"

Angie tried to speak normally, but her voice kept breaking as she talked. We both ignored it. "He came in with the crowbar, and said stuff about the web site. Rick said no, and the guy started swinging the crowbar and hit Ricky in the leg, and when he still said no the guy pulled his gun on me. I pulled my gun. I said I was a federal agent. Ricky, I don't know what he was going to do, but he was trying to run toward me, and the guy shot him, he shot him twice." She drew a deep breath, blew it out, and then another. "Oh, God, I just aimed and fired. I didn't think. It was just like target practice. Boom, boom, boom. And he fell over."

"You're a federal agent?" I asked her. I couldn't let her know I knew it already. All those equations on Professor Robinson's whiteboard were about to go to shit unless I could keep the situation together. I had to improvise, keep too many variables from changing. I was losing everything I'd just gained in Professor Robinson's office.

"I'm an FBI agent now," she said, wiping her hand across her eyes, trying to get hold of herself.

"Okay," I said. Ricky was dead. Angie now knew that I knew she was an agent. One term of the equations changed. Crap, I had to play this right. "Are you here on vacation, or is there some other reason you had your gun with you?"

"I'm here on a case, too," she said. "Oh, God, Rick," she said to his dead face. "I'm so sorry."

"Angie," I said, "do you want to get to the bastard that did this?" The mathematical models were changing with every second. I needed to get back in control. She was the key.

"I—I already killed him," she said, and started to cry.

"What about the person that sent him? Do you want to get him?" She nodded, but she couldn't talk. "Then listen to me. You're under cover here, right?" She nodded again. Now she knew that I knew, but maybe I could keep the rest of the world from knowing. Maybe that would be enough to keep the models intact.

I picked up the gun with my hand under my T-shirt, not touching the metal. The barrel wasn't yet cold, but it wasn't hot. I wiped it down as well as I could, and put it in Ricky's hands, wrapping his cooling fingers around the handle, and threading the forefinger through the trigger. I squeezed his left hand over the barrel to leave more prints and muddy up the fact that I'd wiped away the old ones.

"Listen," I said. "You need to keep your cover. If the cops know you're here on a case, it will change what they do. Ricky shot the guy, understand? Ricky shot him." It felt like an island of clarity in the Vicodin fog: a plan. It would save my dissertation and help me nail Turner. 

"They run the gun, they'll know. Lars, this is stupid." She reached out for the gun, but it was too far away.

"Keep your cover! Who's your backup?" I asked, knowing the answer. "Are you here alone?"

"There's a DEA agent," she began. "Oh, God." She began to cry again.

"That guy Brian?" I asked. She nodded. Okay, now she knew I knew. "Anyone else? A partner?" 

"No."

"Then let me call Brian before we call the police, okay? If he's smart, he can run interference on the gun. You need to keep your cover if you want to get that guy. Do you understand me?"

She shook her head, still in shock. I had to move fast, so that if she changed her mind later, it would be too late. I figured she wouldn't remember later that I didn't have to ask for Brian's number. I pulled out my cell phone and called him. 

"Hey, Lars," he answered. He sounded happy for the call, even though he'd spent most of the last two nights with me. "What's up? How did it go with your professor?"

"Get down here right now. Plan 9. I'm about to call the cops to report a kneecapping gone bad."

"How bad?" Brian snapped into his cop persona.

"Two dead: Ricky and the guy with the crow bar."

There was a short silence, then Brian said, "Are you okay?"

"Would you fucking stop asking me that question?" It came out louder than I intended.

Brain paused again, and I took the time to pull myself back together, suddenly aware that I would lose it if I didn't keep control. Ricky was dead. Ricky was dead. Ricky—"Give me three minutes," Brian said, "then call it in."

I took a deep breath. "You got it," I said, and closed the phone. I went back over to Angie. "I'm calling the police," I told her. "What are you going to tell them?"

"Ricky shot him?" She seemed very unsure. I hoped they would put it down to grieving widow.

"Right," I said. "Why did he have a gun?"

"I don't know," she wailed. She was starting to lose it again. 

I couldn't look at the body. It was enough to see the ragged red hole in his chest from the corner of my eye. I walked over to the guy by the office, lying on his side with a red stain spreading from three tight holes in the center of his Allman Brothers T-shirt. He had long sideburns and a ponytail with grey hairs threaded through the brown, and a suede leather, fringed jacket. He looked like a 70's reject, matching the stupid muscle car parked out in the lot. I stepped over him and picked up the phone to dial 911.

I told the cops what I'd found, gave the address, hung up the phone, and leaned against the wall. I heard Brian's motorcycle moments later, then heard him come through the door.

"Lars?" he called. "Oh, Jesus." 

I took another deep breath, stepped over the body in front of the office door and walked over to him.

He touched my arm, a brief brush of fingers that rested above my wristband. "What happened?"

"From what Angie said, Ricky and the guy shot each other."

Brian took a look at the scene, took his fingers off my wrist, and looked at me. "Bullshit."

"What?"

He pointed at Ricky's body. "That's an exit wound. He was shot in the back. That's a standard issue FBI firearm he's got in his hand." Brian pointed at Angie. "That's an FBI agent." He pointed at the body by the office. "That was a damn good hit, straight off the training range. Why are you messing with a crime scene?"

"I have to keep things—" I began. I couldn't get it out, all the relationships and predictions in my head. I cursed my decision to take the Vicodin. "I need for people not to know—"

"Not to know what?" Brian yelled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Ricky knew," I said, backing up a step. "We were going to walk Turner deeper in. He'd see me as an ally." Didn't seem like the time to mention my research plans.

Brian looked at me, his face suddenly cold, and turned at the sounds of sirens. He crouched down by Angie. "Did you shoot that guy? Tell me the truth, or so help me Lars is going to jail for tampering with a crime scene and a witness."

Angie nodded. "It's my gun. I shot him."

Shit. All the lines, the constructs in my head, began to disintegrate.

Brian pulled the gun from Ricky's dead fingers. "Pick it up," Brian said to Angie. "Get your prints back on it."

Angie reached down, her hand shaking, and pulled her gun out of Ricky's long fingers just before the local cops came through the door.

Brian stood and whispered to me, "Don't fuck around." He intercepted the guys in uniform with his identification out and at eye level. "Special Agent Brian Hoechst," he said, "Drug Enforcement Administration. Gentlemen, this is your jurisdiction, but I think we need to talk before anyone leaps to conclusions. Agent Grissom needs a few moments to get herself together, I think, and then we'll have FBI representation. Who's in charge?"

I went up to the sound booth and opened the fridge. It was full, just like I expected, because Ricky usually restocked on Wednesdays. I got a beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gun violence. Character death.


	28. An aftermath

I found a way to sit comfortably enough in Ricky's chair, which was high and padded. Thanks to the Vicodin, the bruises and the tear in my back didn't hurt too much. No one paid attention to me at first, so I drank and watched the show, filing away the interactions for future reference. Data. Everything I had been planning was gone to shit. My best friend was dead, and I'd pissed off my— Fuck, what was Brian to me? He'd started acting like my boyfriend. I wasn't thinking clearly, and I was frozen on three questions: Could I still get Shad Turner, could I salvage my dissertation project, and could I salvage my life? Turner mattered most. The rest of it could go to hell if I could get Turner. I couldn't think, so I watched and drank.

The cops and Brian sorted out who would do what, waited for a more senior local cop, and pretended they didn't think less of Angie for having seen her cry. The looks behind her back were significant, though, and I wondered if she'd sucked off any of them during her slut days.

Finally, someone sent one of the local uniformed cops over to the soundboard. "Put down the beer."

I upended it, getting the last of it down my throat before he said, louder, "I said, put down that beer."

"I'm sorry," I said, and stifled a burp. "I thought you said to down the beer."

"Get down and go sit over there." He pointed at the stage.

I thought about giving him more attitude, and I must have paused long enough to irritate him. "I said to get down here. Don't make me tell you the next thing twice."

I stood up, taking my time and dropping the can in the trash. I grabbed a marker on my way down. When I made it to the concrete, the cop took my elbow and escorted me over to the stage. I stepped up and leaned against the wall next to the drum riser.

"I told you to sit down."

"I'd rather not, officer." It felt strange to use that word with someone other than Brian.

The cop put his hand on his nightstick, and looked at me with a meaningful expression. 

"I'm hurt," I said, "and sitting isn't such a good idea."

"You were on your ass on that chair up there," he said, and in two moves he'd grabbed my elbow and got his knee behind mine so that one leg buckled. 

Even though he had me and was making sure I didn't bang my head, or break something, I went down with a bad twist, and I felt the wound on my back tear open. "Fuck!" It hurt through the Vicodin as it tore, and then set up a steady ache. I arranged myself so that I wouldn't stretch the skin too much, and looked past the legs of the cop to find Brian.

He wasn't even looking at me, and I knew I'd shouted loud enough for him to hear. "Fuck," I said, to myself this time.

I watched as they photographed, listened as they discussed, heard Angie give a more coherent version of the same story she'd told me, and heard Brian fill the cops in on the basic framework of the case. Neither of them said anything about my stupid attempt to change the story. The pain in my back pushed through the painkillers and woke me up. I knew what I'd been thinking at the moment I told her to lie, but couldn't believe how stupid I'd been. Lars the Great Big Idiot.

Maybe there was something I could do with the new situation. I uncapped the pen and started drawing on my arm, trying to make sense of the changes, capture ideas, all of it punctuated by a throb in my back. I marked up most of my arm while keeping an ear on the goings on around me, trying to take in enough data.

The EMTs arrived, and carted off the bodies. One of the local cops looked at me while a woman in an ambulance uniform checked over Angie. "So what do we bring him in for?"

Brian barely glanced at me and turned his back as he talked. "You don't have anything on him. Take his statement and if it checks out with Agent Grissom's, let him go. They have a show scheduled most Wednesdays. He's going to have to deal with the business."

I heard a couple of the cops snort, and one of them said, "It'll be good to have this place closed. What a shit hole."

"I don't know," said one of the plainclothes detectives. He had on a polo shirt and khakis, the beginnings of a belly over his belt. "It kept all the freaks in one place most nights. Too bad we couldn't just bomb the place then."

I kept my eyes on my arm, but they knew I could hear them. I paused in the middle of an equation running down the inside of my forearm, waited to hear something from Brian, something to counter their comments, but all he said was, "You guys understand that we can't blow our covers. This has all got to remain confidential."

Oh, fuck, I thought. That was guaranteed to start the rumor mill. There wouldn't be anyone on the police force or in the county sheriff's office who wouldn't know within twenty four hours, and from there it would spread. That changed everything, and I needed to add another set of variables to my calculations, but was running out of room. I pulled off the wrist band and started writing small figures in a spiral around my arm, a long equation that balanced just before I would have had to either write on the scabs from Brian's handcuffs or skip to the back of my hand and have to try to remember where the pieces connected.

One of the cops said, "What about him?"

"Mr. Dahl?" Brian said. I heard someone snort again, but Brian ignored it. "He's known I was a cop since I walked in the door the first time."

"He's cooperating?" a voice said, disbelieving.

"No. He made me. He won't get in our way." Brian's voice was dismissive, but the slight emphasis was an order to me.

"What the hell is he doing?"

I glanced up, and saw Brian turn. His eyes went wide when he saw my arm, and then he closed them. "Ask him," Brian said, and turned away again.

One of the cops came over. It was the plainclothes guy who had made the firebombing comment. "Mr. Dahl?" he said, following the federal agent's lead by calling me Mister, but not containing his sneer.

"Don't you mean freak?" I asked, my eyes on Brian's back. His head dipped, slightly, but he didn't turn.

The cop ignored my sarcasm. "What are you doing?"

"My homework."

"Don't get smart with me."

I glanced up. "Theoretical political science. I'm a grad student. Would you like me to explain the equations?"

The cop let it go. "Care to tell me where you've been all day and what your role is here?"

"Mind if I stand up?"

"Go right ahead." He pulled a notebook out of the back pocket of his khakis. 

I capped the pen and stood, wincing at the pain in my back. I stood a good six inches taller than him and he had to look up another six inches from my being on the stage. He immediately stepped up on the stage and then to the drum riser, so he could look me in the eye. I leaned on the wall. "I got up about ten, went to an eleven o'clock appointment with my graduate thesis advisor, spent the next two and a half hours in her office, grabbed a sandwich at the coffee shop by campus, and drove here. The door was part open. Ricky and that other guy were already dead. Angie had Ricky's head in her lap. I called that guy, Brian, when Angie told me she was an FBI agent and he was DEA, then I called nine one one."

"And why were you coming here?" he asked, looking up from his writing.

"I work here."

"What do you do?"

"I work the door and clean the toilets."

He snorted. "Do you know why anyone would want to harm Mr. Cabot?"

"Not really," I lied. "Just what Angie mentioned." It wasn't a lie. Anything I knew was guesswork.

"Do you know anything about this web site Special Agent Grissom mentioned?"

"I work the door and clean the toilets."

"So that's a no?"

"Ricky mentioned something. I didn't pay attention."

I saw the EMT leave Angie, and she walked over to the stage on her way to the door. "Are you all right?" she asked, sounding like she expected not to break her stride.

I shook my head. "Can you take a look at my back?"

"Sure." She glanced at the cop, pushed back her short hair and, stepped up on the stage with us. The plainclothes guy moved aside. I turned toward the wall and flipped up my T-shirt.

"Oh, boy," she said. "That's a hell of a bruise. The bandage is soaked. Can he come out to the truck with me?"

"I'll come with you," said the cop.

We walked out of the door, and she brought down a box from the back of the truck. I turned and let her pull off the bandage, and tried not to flinch as she cleaned the area. "Oh, man, you just broke that open again, didn't you?"

"Someone was a little insistent that I sit down." I glanced over my shoulder at her, but she didn't look up.

"That needs stitches. Why didn't you go in to the ER when this happened?" I didn't answer. "I'm not trained for this, but Hal's a paramedic." She turned. "Hey, Hal! You want to practice suture technique?"

"What do you have?" I looked back to see a big guy with a gut and an EMT uniform wander over. His hands looked like beef mitts. "Hmm," he said. He smelled of cigarettes. "Gloves." He put on a pair of vinyl gloves and poked around the wound. "Tough one, but I can use the practice. See, Linda? It's in four pieces, but if we get it there, there, there, and there, we can put another stitch or two across the middle and pull the whole thing back together." He tapped on my spine as if he were knocking at a door. "This is going to hurt, even with a topical anesthetic. You okay with that?"

"I'm okay with that," I said. 

"Up in here, then," he said, opening the door to one of the ambulances. I assumed the bodies were in the other one.

I got in and lay down where he told me to, and I ignored the negotiation with the cop over space and whether he could come in. The EMT hadn't been kidding. It hurt while he was stitching me up, but I was glad to have it done. From their running commentary I learned a lot of things I didn't want to know, since Hal used the hole in my back to teach Linda how to pull ragged skin breaks back together. I was glad they were talking, since that meant they weren't asking me how I got it.

Linda put a new bandage on when they were done, and said, "Play nice with Detective Riley out there, and don't pop your stitches."

"Thanks," I said, and sat up on the stretcher. She stepped out of the ambulance, and offered her hand to help me down.

"You're welcome, and what the heck happened to your wrist?"

The plainclothes guy, Riley, leaned in to look, too. "That's a handcuff mark, isn't it?"

"It's all right," I said to Linda.

"Answer my question," said Riley.

I looked at him. "Does my sex life have any bearing on this case?"

He blanched. "Sick bastard," he said, grabbed my arm above the elbow, and steered me back inside.

Brian and Angie were standing with the ranking local cop, heads close together, but the expressions on their faces were grim, with added stubborn on the local cop. I hoped Brian would tell me later what it was about. Angie noticed us, and said something that broke it up, and they turned our way.

"His story checks?" Brian asked.

"Yep," Riley said, "but we'll want to check at the university and the coffee shop to make sure he was where he said he was."

"Deanna Robinson, chair of Political Science," I said. "You want the office number?"

Brian ignored my question. "Mr. Dahl, you understand that secrecy is the one advantage we have here."

"Sure," I said. "Whatever the hell it is you're being secret about."

His face was a mask, but he glanced at my arm. "The exact nature of the investigation is not your concern, but Agent Grissom and myself must retain our cover. You should also know that we do not believe you or Mr. Cabot were involved in the crimes under investigation."

The formal words were like a wall. "Nice to hear," I said.

"I understand you may want to close down at least for the rest of the week, but it would help us if Plan 9 were to stay open for the foreseeable future." He looked at me, his face still blank.

I gave him nothing back, keeping my face as empty as I felt inside. "We were a two-man show. I'll need help. Someone who can run a sound board, at least."

"We can find someone." Brian turned to Angie. "It would be good to have another agent in here."

"No," I said. They all turned to me. Brian raised his eyebrows, and Riley looked sour. "I'll find someone. You people start sending strangers in, you might as well hang a flag that there's an investigation going on." I looked at Riley as I said it.

"Can you run the sound board?" Angie asked. "What if you said you wanted a professional bouncer at the door, and you took over the booth?" 

I had to give her credit for thinking fast, but I shook my head. "It looks like an easy job, but it isn't. In a place like this you can't put some random bag of muscles on the door. Give me through the weekend to find someone to work the damn board, okay?" 

They backed off, and eventually they all left, Brian without a backward glance, and Riley with a significant look. I resisted the urge to give him the finger, and closed and locked the door behind them. I changed my boots, pulled my hair back, and put on a pair of mint green gloves. Cleaning was a good way not to think about everything I'd just lost: My best friend, my research, and probably my— whatever Brian was. My usual routine took an extra two hours because I was moving slow to keep from popping my new stitches, plus the time it took to mop up the blood.

I had to clean the john in _us_ again after I threw up.


	29. Brian doesn't answer his phone

I was about to crack my second beer when the kids who were scheduled to play showed up. The clock on the soundboard said 6:30. Five hours ago I'd walked into Plan 9. Ten minutes ago I'd finished cleaning my own puke and pounded a beer to get the taste out.

I couldn't remember the band names, and hadn't even bothered to look at the calendar Ricky kept in the office. They knocked at the door, then pounded. I put the beer away, took a piece of paper, one of Ricky's board sheets, and wrote "Closed due to death in the family," and grabbed a role of duct tape. I set the alarm as they continued to knock, hit the exit button, and opened the door.

"Alright. Where were you?" one of them said. They started turning toward the minivan to unpack their gear.

"Sorry, kids," I said, and closed the door behind me, locking it with the key. I taped up the sign, and walked to my car without a word, ignoring their questions. 

Ricky's car was still there, but the Firebird had been towed. I got in my own car, started it, and turned out of the lot without any idea where to go. I drove home on autopilot, but when I got there, I sat in the driveway and stared at the door. I pulled out the cell phone and hit redial. There was only one number I ever called.

Brian didn't answer. I got his voice mail. "It's me," I said. "Call back."

I got out of the car and went into the house. There was a pile of printed journal articles by the Victorian loveseat, and a notebook open with scrawled calculations. I walked into the kitchen and poured a Jack Daniels on the rocks and took it back to the living room. There was a pen, so I picked it up, turned a page in the notebook, and started transcribing the markings on my arm. By the time I was done, my glass was empty. The clock said 8:26.

I called Brian again. His recorded voice came on after one ring and said, "Brian Hoechst. Leave a message." 

"Please," I said, "call me." Either he couldn't call back because he was still with the local cops, or he was pissed off enough to avoid me.

I poured another drink and picked up an article from the stack. It gave me something to stare at, but the words weren't coming through. I tried Brian again, but it went straight to voice mail. No way would I violate Rule 1 and leave another message like a fourteen year-old girl.

I'd drunk about half the whisky in my glass when I heard a knock at my door, loud. I opened it to find Detective Riley, and this time I looked at him closely, his round, good-old boy-face, gun on his hip, and badge hanging from his belt. "Can I help you?"

"Can I come in?"

"Got a warrant, officer?" I didn't like the old echo in my ears.

He made a face. "No."

"What do you want?" I asked, scrubbing my hand down my face.

"We'd like you to come back to Plan 9." It looked like it was killing him to be polite.

Fuck, now what? "Am I in trouble for mopping the floor?"

"What? No. It seems your usual crowd has decided not to let the fact that you're closed put a damper on their evening."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come down and see for yourself, and maybe tell these punk kids to go home." He looked disgusted, but when I looked closer, he also seemed a little out of his depth.

"Why don't you just do your cop thing?"

"The DEA agent seemed to think you'd be able to handle it better." It seemed he was also pissed about being overruled.

"Fine. Let me get my boots and my keys." I left the door open, found a pair of boots next to the loveseat and pulled them on, then headed to the bathroom.

"Where are you going?"

"To take a leak." I also stopped to put on eyeliner. At the door I picked up my keys from the hook.

"I'll drive you," Riley said.

"Rather not."

He leaned in. "You've been drinking. You ride with me or the second you get out of the driveway I'll pull you over on suspicion of driving under the influence."

Asshole. "Fine."

We made the trip in silence, riding in an unmarked car that screamed cop. When we got close to Plan 9, I saw the problem.

There were at least fifty teenagers on the street and four squad cars blocking off the road on either side of the building. Some band was playing unamplified in front of the door, to a few people close enough to pay attention. Riley parked close to one of the squad cars, and I got out. I noticed Brian's motorcycle, but didn't see him with the cops.

A ripple went through the crowd as I walked up. Once again, height and hair worked to my advantage. A few kids started shouting at me and the drummer broke off.

I ignored the questions and walked to the door. "Got a milk crate?" I asked one of the guitar players.

"Sure." He pointed, and I picked it up, flipped it over, ignoring the cables inside, and stood on it. Most of the crowd was quiet, but there were pockets of people talking.

"Okay, you punk kids," I called. Things quieted down and they all turned to me. "Yeah, you punk kids, and unlike our guests this evening, I mean that in the best possible way. Plan 9 is closed for tonight, and probably for the rest of the week."

"Lars, what happened?" called a voice.

I looked out. It was Blue. "What do you hear?" I asked her, but I didn't hear her answer.

"Who died?" Another voice shouted. There was an echo of people repeating the question.

"Ricky's dead."

I let the noise swell and break, mostly questions of why and how. I spotted Brian, wearing a damn baseball cap and a blue T-shirt. He looked at me. I had to do what I could for him. "Ricky was shot this afternoon in the club. I don't know why." I had to let the noise die down again. I saw Trey in the crowd, which gave me an idea. "Don't you dare give these cops any attitude, because they have the guy that did it." I didn't say they had him in the morgue.

There was more noise, and I heard a few derogatory remarks about the police. "Hey!" I yelled. "Do you know why this place has stayed open? We keep our heads down and our noses clean, and we don't give them—" I pointed, arms wide, at the squad cars blocking either end of the street and the police standing nearby—"we don't give them any excuse to shut us down." I raised my arms over my head. "You want Plan 9 to reopen?"

There were noises that summed up to a loud, Hell, yeah.

"Then come in off the damn street, you dumb punks!" I got off the milk crate, opened the door, and stepped aside. I was glad it was underage night, because that stunt would have been a lot harder to pull off with the older crowd. The kids filed in as I punched in the alarm code, and I yelled at the band to come in and set up. 

I went looking for Trey, and spotted his skinhead quickly. "Can you help them set up and run the board?"

His eyes went wide. "Me?"

 _No, the Queen of fucking Sheba_ , I thought. "Come on, you help tear down. You must have some idea how to set up. And I can help you with the board. Step up, or step down, Trey."

He grinned. "I'm on it." He turned to help the band bring in their gear, which was one problem off my mind. I flipped on the lights, made sure the office door was closed and locked, and doublechecked the toilet paper in the bathrooms out of habit. 

I looked out the door to see how much damage there was on the street. There were some drink cans and wrappers, but the mess wouldn't be too bad to clean up. Riley came up. I asked, "Did you draw the short straw to talk to the freak?"

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

I hadn't thought that far ahead, but I said, "Let the band play one long set and send them all home in time to get up for school tomorrow."

Riley nodded, his second chin making it more emphatic. "And tomorrow?"

"I'm going to have to go through stuff in the office, call the contact numbers for the bands, and cancel everything for the rest of the week."

"What if this happens again?" he asked, gesturing toward the street.

"I'll change the note on the door." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How's Angie?"

"Agent Grissom will be fine. It was her first kill."

"Have you ever shot anyone?" I asked, but I was thinking that he might not know she was married to Ricky. Interesting.

Riley ignored the question. "We're planning to leave a police detail here until you close."

"No need," I said, "but suit yourself. Hoechst can come back in his club drag if he wants."

"I think we'll leave a car here," he said.

"Good, then someone can give me a ride home." I turned away and helped Trey finish the set-up, powered up the board, and told the band they had an hour. I watched the door and the street and had another beer. Everyone was better behaved than usual, subdued, even. Several of them told me they were sorry, but I probably didn't look approachable. Seeing Trey up at the board, it hit me that it was his fault Ricky was dead. It only made me more sure that we had to get Shad Turner. I wanted to hate Trey, but if it hadn't been him, Turner would have found someone else.

It was the easiest close I'd ever had on a Wednesday. The band quit when I told them the hour was up, and the crowd left quickly. Several offered me full cover on their way out, and I pocked the cash with a nod.

Blue hung out on the couch while Trey helped me wind the last of the cables. He'd done a reasonable job running the board, and I wondered if it would be better to keep him under my eye. On the other hand, I wasn't sure I could have him around without wanting to punch him again.

"Hey," Trey said as we loaded the last crate. "I did it tonight, didn't I?" He seemed proud of himself, like he'd moved up in the world by running the sound board. 

"Yeah, you didn't screw up your first solo flight," I said.

"You offering me a job?" he asked. "Like, for money?"

"Maybe." No way in hell, I thought.

"Gonna pay me for tonight?" he asked.

"I'm not getting paid for tonight."

"How about a beer, then?"

"Cop cars outside the door. You're underage. Don't be stupid."

"Hey, I had to try, right?"

"Thanks for the help, now please go home." Trey looked like he wanted to talk to me, but I said, "Please. Go home now." Blue was still sitting on the couch. "You too, Blue."

"Can we talk?" she said, getting up and walking toward me.

"Sure." I turned and walked Trey to the door. There was still a squad car parked on the street, plus the usual litter of bottles and cans. I closed the door behind Trey. "I need to clean up, but we can talk for a few minutes." I wasn't in the mood, but with everyone gone, I didn't have the energy to fight it.

She looked at me, and I waited for the questions about Ricky, but what she said was, "Why don't I help you?" 

I got the snow shovels. The mess wasn't bad, and it was good to have company. She didn't talk much, and she worked hard, both of which surprised me, but I was glad of it. 

I dumped the trash from inside the club, and I got a trash bag for the outdoor pickup. I let Blue do all the bending so I wouldn't pop one of my new stitches. The litter of bottles and cans was lighter than usual, and we cleared it up under the eye of a couple of police officers sitting in their car.

"Thanks," I said, and tossed Blue's bag into the dumpster. It was taller than she could reach. "How are you getting home?"

"I was hoping to catch a ride with you."

"Cops brought me down. Want to see if they'll take us home?"

Blue reached out for my hand. It seemed gentle, coming from her. She turned my hand palm up to rest my hand in hers, and slid the fingers of her other hand from my wrist to my finger tips. "Can I go home with you?"

"Blue—" I started.

"Lars, I got the message, but you just lost someone important, and you probably don't want to be alone."

She was right, but she wasn't my first choice. "Why don't you sweet talk those cops for a ride home for us, and I'll close up."

She walked down the street to the cop car, and as soon as I was inside Plan 9, I pulled out my phone to call Brian. It rang five times before going to voice mail. Shit. That meant he was avoiding me.

I realized I was standing where Ricky's body had been, and froze.

After a few minutes, Blue's voice snapped me out of the blank spot. "Hey, Lars, they'll give us a lift. Turns out, they were waiting for you." She came and pulled me by the arm. "They even said they'd take me to my house and you to yours." She sounded resigned, but I appreciated her not pushing me. It tipped my decision.

I may have smiled at her, but I followed her to the squad car. I hated being in the back of these things because you can't open them from the inside. She gave her address, and they drove there. When the cop got out to open her door, I slid over and got out the same side.

"Thanks," I said. "I'd hate for you to have to make two stops." I didn't look back as we walked to her house, but I knew that Brian was going to hear about where I'd ended up. "You're right. I need to be with someone," I said, following her to the door.

"And I owe you one," she said as she put the key in the lock. "I have some wine," she said.

We sat on her bed, drinking from plastic glasses, not talking, until she put them aside, stripped me, then herself. I let her, feeling numb. She said, "Do you want me to, you know, spank you or something?"

Huh? "What? Why?"

"Because Ricky did that for you."

Oh, fuck. I'd forgotten that stupid lie. I touched her face. "All I want is whatever you want to give. I just don't want to be alone right now. Like you said, you owe me one."

"I owe you two," she said.

"We'll start with one."

She never commented on the bruises or the bandage, but she was careful how she touched me, eventually handing me a condom, pulling me on top of her and guiding me in. It was slow and soft, and if she noticed I was shaking, all she did was stroke my head and whisper to me that I felt good.

Hours later I came wide awake in Blue's bed, knowing full well where I was. Fuck. Yes, well that was the operative word. There was just enough light to see her, and I reached over to touch her face, smeared with makeup, but sweet, peaceful. I was grateful to her, bless her mercenary heart. She'd hold this over me at some point, I was sure, or maybe she was making sure I couldn't hold those Intensity nights over her.

My touch woke her up. "Hey," she said.

"Hey, baby Blue," I said. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Are you leaving?"

I hadn't planned on it, but when she asked, it seemed the right thing to do. "I think so. Thanks."

"You said that." 

I leaned over and kissed her head, feeling soft stubble under my lips. It gave me a twinge, thinking of Brian's rough face. "I meant it."

"You needed not to be alone. I get that." She got out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I dressed, and waited for her to come back. 

When she came back, I said, "One more, and then I start owing you, right?"

She cocked her head to look up at me. Her face was clean, and she looked so young. "Right." Her smile was wicked, though, and older than her eyes, but I needed that.

I did my best imitation of a grown-up. "Back to bed, you."

"How will you get home?"

"It's about a half-hour walk," I said. "I need to clear my head."

I leaned down to kiss her and closed the bedroom door behind her.

I almost ran into Blue's housemate in the hall when I came out of the bathroom. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Blue brought me home."

"Why are you here? Haven't you messed with her enough?" 

I cocked my head to one side and looked down at her. "You don't like me."

She rolled her eyes. "No shit."

"I'm not messing with her," I said.

"You'd better not be."

I looked down at her, in no mood to be threatened by someone I'd seen dressed in schoolgirl Goth. "Or what?"

She took a step back. "Just don't lead her on."

All the peace Blue had given me vanished. "Why don't you ask her why I was here, and get the hell out of my face."

I walked home, and I let my mind wander, trying not to calculate, or to think at all. I walked in the door at about 3:00 AM and put the cell phone on the charger, then picked it up again and called Brian. Five rings and voice mail. Damn. He was doing this on purpose.

I took two Vicodin, stripped, and slept until noon.


	30. "No. Yes. No. It's not like that."

When I finally got moving, I stopped by the coffee shop for an Eyeopener, and went to Plan 9. I set the alarm behind me, and went into the office. I sat in Ricky's chair, turned on the computer, and looked at the calendar on the wall while it booted. Two of Turner's bands were coming in on Saturday, and I needed to get hold of them and cancel. Friday night some student group had planned to host a showing of their art films. 

Ricky had made me learn all his passwords, and I spent a good hour looking through his file system, checking the email, and cursing the latest update of Windows. I hadn't used a computer much in four years, except for Web access in the university library these last few weeks, and it took me a while to re-learn how to navigate. I looked at the wall calendar again, following it out for the next two months, and noting which of the bands were Turner's. I looked at the certificates, the business license, all of that.

They were all in the name of Richard Cabot, Doing Business As Plan 9, and it was damn likely they were no longer valid. My name was on the bank account, but there was no way I could keep the place open, not without the permits.

I pulled out the cell phone and called Brian. This time I expected him not to answer, and had my speech prepared by the time I got his voice mail. "Officer Hoechst, this is Mr. Dahl. As much as I would love to help out by keeping Plan 9 open, I have no legal right to do so. Unless you can help out with that, we're closed. It's Thursday. Tell me if you can do anything by Friday afternoon. Otherwise, I'm just a former employee of a business with a single owner, now deceased." 

I called the contact number for the first band tonight, and left a message. For the second band, Rabid Ramirez, someone answered the phone. "Can I speak to Jim, please?" I asked.

"That's me."

"This is Lars from Plan 9."

"Oh, shit, man. Does that mean it's true?"

"What's true?"

"That Ricky's dead and you guys are closing down."

"Sort of," I said. "Ricky was killed, but I'm going to try to keep the place open."

"I'm so sorry, man, but—"

I cut him off, surprised by sudden anger. I didn't want to hear any I'm sorry crap. "I'll see what I can do about re-booking you another day."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Let us know what we can do to help."

I wanted to hold on to the anger, but he sounded like he understood that I was pissed off, and maybe even why. "Thanks," I said. 

"Seriously," he said, "what can we do to help?"

I tried to remember the band. They were college kids, doing a punk and hip-hop blend in both Spanish and English. I liked them. "Anyone in your band know how to run a sound board?"

"Oh, man," he said. "I can, so can Saul."

"Cool." This might solve my Trey problem, and the issue of the feds wanting to plant another agent. "We should talk, uh—" I looked at the phone list on the computer to remind me of his name, and finished, "Jim."

"Sure thing." He paused and added, "uh, Lars. You have my phone number, so let me know."

I liked his sense of humor. "I'm hoping we can open up again next week," I said.

"Cool," he said again, and we hung up.

I looked around the office. It was Ricky's domain, and I wasn't sure what to do next. I looked at the contact numbers for the bands he'd booked through Shad Turner this weekend, and considered calling Turner himself. No. Let this play out. What would I do if I knew nothing?

I called the number for No Rhodes Barred. There wasn't a name, so when a voice answered, I said, "Hi. This is Lars Dahl from Plan 9. You're supposed to play here on Saturday."

"Yeah, right," said a voice. Female. Sleepy. "What town was that again?"

I told her. "Look, I'm sorry, but we have to cancel. The owner of the club is dead."

"What?" She sounded awake now. "You can't cancel! We have a contract with Shad Turner that says we play and we get paid."

It was not the response I'd been expecting. "Um, did you hear me? The owner is dead."

"We have a contract," she said again.

Is she on crack? I thought. "Then take it up with Turner, but I don't think you can hold a dead man to a contract."

"I'm calling Shad," she said, with threat in her voice.

"Go right ahead, but if you show up here on Saturday, you'll find the doors locked. If you want, maybe I can arrange for the nice policemen to explain to you that dead is dead."

"But you're there."

"Listen, bitch, I'm just making phone calls to let people know. Would you rather show up and have no place to play, or have some warning?"

"We can't get another gig in two days!" She sounded less angry, and more panicked. "Besides—" She cut herself off.

"Besides what?"

"Nothing. Just, this is a surprise, you know?" She was trying to get hold of herself.

"Yeah, well, try coming in and finding your boss with his chest blown out. That's a surprise."

It was like I hadn't said anything. "I'm calling Shad," she said, and the threat was back.

"Fine," I said. "Maybe he can sue Ricky's corpse for breach of contract through a séance." I hung up the phone, thinking, Jesus, what a bitch.

I stared at the calendar on the wall again. "Damn," I said out loud. Every muscle was tense, and I stood up to walk around, ending up on the stage, looking out over the space. It always looked so much smaller when it was empty.

It was only when I heard a pounding at the door that I realized I'd been standing there for a while, balling my fists, over and over. I opened the door as the pounding started again. Brian stood there, fist raised to knock again, in chinos and a polo shirt, carrying his leather jacket. At least he'd skipped the ball cap. His bleached brush cut was showing darker at the roots. I glanced over to the parking lot, and his bike was leaning on its stands.

I didn't say anything. Seeing him brought up the anger again.

"Can I come in, Mr. Dahl?" Seemed he was pissed off, too.

I stood aside, and he walked in, stopping where Ricky's body had lain. He looked at the floor, his back to me. After a few moments he said, "Nice job on the clean up. It's hard to get blood out of concrete."

I still said nothing as I punched the code into the alarm. I had no idea what to say, and I could feel my face turn to stone, holding in everything.

"Look," he said, still facing away from me. "You almost fucked up big time." 

I cleared my throat, wanting to agree, but didn't answer. I could see his shoulders rise with deep breaths, and felt my own lungs fill and empty slowly, trying to keep from speaking. He turned around and walked toward me, and I braced myself for him to hit me, or yell at me, but he walked in a circle around me. "On your knees, freak."

My voice broke, caught in my throat, as I said, "No."

"What?"

In a clearer voice, I said, "No."

He reached up and grabbed my left ear, grip harsh on the rings. "I said—"

"I heard you," I said, pushing my forearm against his, trying to get him to let go. "You're not hearing me."

He let go of my ear, but caught my arm and pulled it out straight to look at the markings. His voice sounded tightly controlled. "You're not saying anything I can understand." He ran his fingers over the diagrams and equations. "What is all this stuff?"

"Ever hear of information theory?" Brian shook his head, tracing down my arm to the handcuff marks. "It's a way of using math to track how information moves, how it gets garbled in communication. Game theory is a way to model how people behave. I used a lot of game theory in my Master's work, and I'm adding the information theory for my dissertation, feeding it into the model and seeing how it changes the game behavior."

"Is that all this is to you? A game?" He squeezed harder. "That was not helping by not helping, or whatever the hell it was you said you were doing. That was tampering with a crime scene." I shrugged, not wanting to admit anything, and he dropped my hand. "What the hell did you think you were doing? There's no way the story would have stuck, that Ricky shot that guy."

I bit the bullet. "I didn't want to expose Angie."

"That's not your problem," Brian said. "Why would you care?"

"It changed too many variables," I said, feeling even more strongly how stupid I'd been. I covered it with sarcasm. "I'm sorry. There would have been a way to salvage the project, but you know, dead business partner. I was sort of in shock."

He picked up my left arm again, gripping it tightly. "That's what this is all about? You're using this case, using me, for some stupid, egghead ideas?"

"No. Yes. No, it's not like that." I pulled against his hold on my arm. "If that asshole hadn't killed Ricky, you never would have known."

"It doesn't matter if I know or not. Don't you get it?"

"Get what?" 

"You have been manipulating me from the moment we met." He let go of my arm, threw it, really, and stepped away. "You went home with Blue last night. Was that just another way to yank my chain?"

I went cold. "Going home with Blue happened because you wouldn't answer your damn phone. Sorry, but yesterday was a bit of a shocker, and I didn't want to be alone."

"Any port in a storm?"

"Fuck you," I said. "It was Blue, and it was her idea, and I called you one last time before I went with her." 

"You called early this morning, too."

"Yeah, when I got home," I said. "Does that tell you anything?" I moved closer to him, not sure if I meant what I was about to say. "You," I said, deliberately. "I wanted to be with you."

Brian stepped back and looked at the floor, took a deep breath, and shook his head. "You're doing it again. I can't believe a word you say." He looked up and said deliberately, "You lie like a rug."

I started to protest, but he cut me off. "Your own words, as I recall." I was looking at the professional, at Special Agent Hoechst, not my officer, and not Brian. "This is not your sandbox, Mr. Dahl. It's mine, and you'd be well advised to keep your ideas as theory and let us handle the practice. Until you prove to me that I can trust you, anything that comes out of your mouth is suspect."

He walked past me, close enough to brush shoulders, but twisting at the last minute to miss. The door closed heavily behind him, and I wanted to follow, to tell him he was wrong, and that he had fucked up by not answering my calls last night. But the analytical part of my brain—the part I'd been working so hard to wake up again—knew he was right, and it killed me to admit it.


	31. In which Angie comes to visit

There was a pounding at my door the next morning, shortly after 8:00. I dragged myself out of bed, and pulled on a pair of jeans. I could still taste alcohol on my breath, and I wasn't sure how I'd gotten home. I glanced back at the bed, and saw blue hair sticking out from under the covers. Fuck. I vaguely remembered running into her in a bar. 

Angie was at my door, dressed in jeans and a shirt, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail with a baseball cap. What was it with feds and baseball caps? "What do you want?" 

"Can I come in?"

"As Ricky's widow or as an FBI agent?"

"Lars, please." She looked tense. I couldn't blame her.

"Come back later," I said, and started to close the door, but she pushed her way in. I didn't have the energy to fight her.

"What do you want?"

"They want to pull me from the case," she said.

"I've been told it's not my problem what they do with this case," I said, turning toward the kitchen. If I had to deal with Angie, I needed coffee.

"Brian told me—" she started, but I was already in the other room. She followed me in to the kitchen. "He was so pissed off, and he said you'd been trying to control things. Why?"

"Why do you care?" I asked, reaching for the coffee and filters. It stretched my back a little, but it didn't hurt as much as it did yesterday. Maybe I was still feeling no pain from last night, I wasn't sure, but I was either very hung over, or still drunk. Probably both.

"I don't want to go back to Virginia. I want to get Shadrach Turner, maybe even find out if there's anyone up past him."

"So you're telling me that our booking agent is behind Ricky's death?" I said, keeping my voice bland as I filled the coffeemaker with water and turned it on.

"Damn it, Lars, don't play dumb!" she said, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You've known why I was here and who we were after for weeks."

"Something Agent Hoechst told you?"

"Stop it!" she yelled, her hands flat on the table. "Just stop it."

"Stop what?" I asked. "And keep your voice down. I have a hangover. And a houseguest."

Angie tensed. "Who?"

"Blue."

"Oh," she said, and relaxed.

"Who did you think it was?" She didn't answer, and I went down the hall to close my bedroom door. Blue hadn't moved.

When I came back into the kitchen, Angie said, "Look, I know you know what Shad Turner is doing, how he's using the bands and the clubs."

"Ricky and I figured it out. And, yeah, I want to get him, too," I said. "And I was pretty sure I could do it, until he sent that asshole to threaten Ricky."

"Do it how?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"

It wasn't worth keeping secrets. "If Turner thought I was an ally, I might be able to learn more, might be able to walk him into a trap for you."

"All by yourself? Without telling us? See, that's why Brian's so pissed off. He says you're trying to control things. Manipulate everyone. I mean, I can't believe you tried to mess with a crime scene."

"Someone seemed ready to go along with it," I said, looking straight at her and mentally laying aside the other reasons he was angry with me. "It's all about information, Mrs. Cabot. Ricky never bothered to tell me he'd married you, and in the mean time, I bought the party line that you were just a slut who'd fucked him over. So to speak." 

To her credit, she barely flinched. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I used to trash you whenever your name came up. Do you think I would have done that if I'd known you were his damn wife?"

She took a deep breath and said, "Okay, so you would have kept your opinions to yourself. So what?" I found my huge mug, and poured half the pot of coffee into it, adding milk before I turned back to her. "So what?" she asked again.

I took three deep swallows, then looked at her. "What do you think that asshole would have done if you hadn't told him you were a federal agent and pulled your gun?"

"Huh? What does that have to do with anything?"

I spoke quietly, not wanting Blue to hear, if she was awake. I'd thought about this a lot on my way to getting completely shit-faced last night, so the words came easy despite my hangover. "He was there to make a threat. Turner wanted everything to go on as it had been. If you were just the girlfriend, killing you would have fucked it up. It would have made extortion into murder, and I can't imagine Turner wanting to turn his little post office into a crime scene. But you had to announce yourself, and it scared the stupid thug. If you'd kept your damn cover, Ricky would be alive." I took a long sip and let that tidbit sink in. "See? A small bit of information changes everything."

Angie stood, her mouth open and her face a dead white. I drank my coffee, waiting for her to go away. 

I could hear the shudder as she took in a breath. She blew it out hard, then said, "I can't believe you would say something like that, except, you're you." 

I rubbed the back of my neck. A headache was starting. "I'm not wrong," I said. "How you deal with that little insight is up to you, but you fucked up."

"I was acting according to procedure," she said, her shoulders starting to slump and her hand back on the bridge of her nose.

"Yes, well, you proceeded Ricky dead," I said, feeling vicious. She was the reason my life had gone to shit. "The only good thing is that the thug is dead, too, so the information that you're an FBI agent won't get back to Turner that way. Not so sure about the cops, though."

"What?" she said, looking up. "They know it's important to keep the investigation quiet." Angie sank down on a chair, which was not the result I wanted. Damned if I was going to offer her coffee, though. 

"The gossip is too good," I said. "And besides, back before you were a married woman, had you been on your knees for any of them?"

Her jaw dropped again. "What?"

"Oh, come on, Angie. Don't tell me your reputation came out of nowhere. Even Trey, who was maybe twelve when you left, he called you Angie the Slut." I downed about half the coffee left in my mug, not looking at her, willing her to leave. "When there's smoke, there's usually fire. Any cops in the notches on your bed post, or did you bother with beds?" 

I glanced at her, and she sat staring at me with her mouth still open. I drank more coffee. Angie put her head down on my kitchen table, and started to sob. 

I had to be impaired not to have predicted she would lose it, so I set the coffee aside and went back to bed to sleep it off, if I could get back to sleep. "You can let yourself out," I said over my shoulder.

Blue opened one eye when I came in the room. "What's going on?"

"Unexpected company. She'll be gone soon." I didn't bother to take off my jeans, and got back on the futon, keeping distance between me and Blue.

"Sounds like she's crying," Blue said, sitting up. She was wearing one of my T-shirts, which seemed strange if we'd had sex.

"Yep," I agreed. "Sure does." I lay on my back with my arm over my eyes.

"Who is it?"

"Angie Grissom."

"That girl that fucked over Ricky and was trying to get him back?"

"So the story goes." 

"Did you make her cry?" 

Blue shook me when I didn't answer, and I looked at her. She must have washed her face before going to bed, because there were no rings of old mascara around her eyes. That meant I'd been more fucked up than she was when we got here, and I still wasn't sure how it had happened in the first place. No cure but to ask. "How'd we get home last night?"

"I drove your car. We came here because my housemate told me never to bring you home again. She thinks you're a jerk. Why is that girl crying in your kitchen?"

I reached out and slid my hand under the T-shirt, up her flank and over her breast, fingering her nipple gently. If she was here in my bed, I might as well get laid.

"Great," she said, pushing my hand away. "Last night you turn me down, and now you're getting romantic while some woman bawls her eyes out in the other room?"

"Look, she showed up here at fuck-all in the morning." I covered my face with my arm again. "It's not my job to be nice to her."

"She cared about Ricky. She must have, to come back like she did. I can't believe you're being such an asshole."

"You should listen to your housemate," I said. I wanted Blue gone, too.

Blue sat very still for a moment, and then said, "You don't remember anything about last night, do you?"

"Huh?"

"That whole conversation."

Uh oh. "What whole conversation? I remember we were having fun."

"We also talked business. Does the name Shad Turner ring a bell?"

What in the world had I done? I opened my eyes and crane my neck to look at her. "Yeah. He's the booking agent for most of the bands."

"Yeah, and you talked about trying to get close to him."

"Did I tell you why?"

"Just that it would be big if you did. And Trey said something about it, once."

I let my head fall back. I must have thought it would be good if word got back to Turner through her somehow. "What did Trey say?"

"Just that Shad Turner had a lot going on, that there were, you know, opportunities. Most of the big-name bands use him, and he does video production, and Trey said he wouldn't care what color my hair was, and the only reason he hadn't gone down there was that he was too young."

"Blue, you don't want to work for Turner

"Why not?"

I didn't think I could trust her not to talk, so all I said was, "He's bad news."

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. "You sound like my roommate talking about you."

"If she was right about me, maybe I'm right about that," I said, but it felt weak. She got off the bed. I heard her rummage for her clothes and start to dress. "Seriously, it's bad news."

"Right, like I’m going to believe you. You just don't want me in on whatever big thing you've got going."

"It's not like that." I didn't want her involved in this. I sat up and reached for the T-shirt she had dropped on the bed. "I'll give you a ride."

"I'll walk," she said. "Looks like I need to clear my head."

"Blue—" I started.

"No. Don't." She stopped at the door. "You tried to warn me. She tried to warn me. I thought I was okay with it, but then you acted so nice, and you came to me when you needed—" She shook her head. "I got stuff to do. See you around, Lars."

I sat on the bed and let her leave, listening to the door, and to the sounds of Angie falling apart in the kitchen. I lay back down and pulled the pillow over my head.

I could still hear Angie, though, and I'd had enough coffee that I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I got up and went back to the kitchen. I got down a mug, poured it for her, and added a shot of whiskey. I added one to my own, warming up what was left in the mug with more coffee.

"What do you take in it?" I asked. Angie ignored me. I pulled her head up, gently, by the hair. "What do you take in your coffee?"

She swatted at my hand and I let her go, but she sat up, eyes swollen, nose running. It wasn't a good look for her. I tossed her a kitchen towel and put the mug, sugar, and the milk in front of her. I sat on the opposite side of the table while she wiped her face, gained, lost, and gained control, and finally put sugar in her coffee.

"Why did you come here?" I asked. If she wasn't going to leave, I might as well figure out what she wanted.

"I don't want to be off the case."

"So, why come to me?"

"If you're so good at manipulating things, maybe you could help me convince them to keep me on."

I snorted. "If I were so good at manipulating things, maybe I wouldn't have tried such a fucking stupid move as to mess with a murder scene."

"You were in shock, you weren't thinking." She took a sip of the coffee and recoiled. "What's in this?"

"Nothing more than Jack Daniels. Hair of the dog that bit me, although I think I descended to Jagermeister last night." I shook my head, then regretted it. The headache had moved from threat to reality. "Never a good idea."

She looked at the mug, then at me, and took a sip. "I guess I could use it."

"It's noon somewhere," I said, and she smiled, short and sad. It was one of Ricky's lines, and he always followed it with, as my father used to say. We sat in silence for a moment before I took her back to business. "So what do you think I can do?"

"Tell me what to tell them?"

"You do know you should never have been involved at all, right? Being married to Ricky."

"I know, and that's what they're saying now, and that it's personal for me."

"Isn't it?"

"For you, too," Angie said. "You guys were like brothers, right?"

I looked at her. "Brothers that keep big-ass secrets."

"He had his reasons."

"Well, the reason he gave me sucked. I can't believe he'd keep it secret just so people wouldn't give him shit about you being such a whore." I took a sip, ignoring the way she grabbed the dish towel to her eyes. "He was tougher than that, and like I said, I'd have shut my trap if he'd said something."

She sat still for a moment, knuckles white on the towel. "But I can't leave it like this, not when I know who killed him."

"As I recall, you shot the guy. End of story."

"God damn it, Lars!" Angie pulled the dish towel away from her eyes and hit the table with a bang that went straight through my head. "Can you focus for once?"

"I tied one on last night, as Ricky's dad used to say. Don't ask for serious shit when I'm hung over." I sipped the spiked coffee, thankful that the whisky was dulling the headache. "Or still drunk."

"I don't have time," she said. "I have to convince them soon."

"What day is it?"

"Friday. Good lord, what is wrong with you? They gave me a week's bereavement leave before I'm expected at my desk at headquarters next Friday morning."

I sat back. "All I can tell you is what I said Wednesday. If they send in a new agent, everyone will know. The town's not big enough for a random new regular to show up. Maybe at the beginning of a semester, but now? Like I said, big fucking neon sign."

"So what do I do?"

"Tell your boss. If the cops keep their mouths shut, and I don't think they will, your cover is still good. It's probably good anyway, since no one would believe Angie was a federal agent." I drank more coffee. "And you can tell them I'll cooperate with you and Brian, but not anyone else."

She sat up. "You will?" I shrugged, pretending I was being cool and laid back, but in my head screaming at myself for opening my mouth when I was tired and emotional. Angie read my shrug for more than it was, and slumped back in the chair. "Brian says you're not to be trusted."

I pretended I felt nothing. "I'm a lying sack of shit, but I might want this guy as bad as you do. He's fucked up my entire life." 

"Your life?" She asked, incredulous. "I lost my husband. My future."

"You still have a future, just a different one than you imagined." I resisted the urge to add more Jack Daniels to my coffee. I couldn't take my own platitudes.

"Same for you," she said. "Rick told me you were going back to graduate school."

"Well, this investigation was part of my dissertation, but it's shot to hell. No pun intended." I gestured with my huge coffee mug, raising a toast to a dead idea. 

"What are you talking about?"

"Modeling information and behavior in an interagency cooperation on the ground, then looking at the behavior from the upper administration level, blah, blah, blah."

"Like your book, only more so."

I raised an eyebrow. "You read my book?"

She rolled her eyes. "Rick made me when I joined the Bureau. He said it would help me navigate office politics. He was right."

That threw me. I knew Ricky had a copy of my book, but for some stupid reason it surprised me that he'd read it. He never mentioned it. "Hmm. Anyway, there goes the up close observation of someone who didn't know I knew she was an agent."

"If you help keep me on the case, I'll help you."

"You don't trust me, right?" 

She sighed. "Rick did, and right now, that counts more than some DEA agent's opinion." She paused and looked into her coffee. "Even if he is fucking you."

My mug stopped on the way to my mouth, and I could feel the blood draining from my face. "What makes you say that?"

"The handcuff marks. When you were lying about Rick being your master, you told Blue it wasn't sexual. Brian took you home that night you were tripping, and then later you told Detective Riley that the marks on your wrists had something to do with your sex life. He enjoyed telling us that, and describing the bruises and the tear on your back, too."

I tried to look at her like she was stupid. "That doesn't mean it was Brian."

She looked at me like I was stupid. "You call him Brian."

"It's his name." I sipped my coffee, feeling every heartbeat shake my chest. The headache was back.

Angie shook her head hard enough to start her ponytail swinging. "Bullshit. You'll fuck anything that's pretty, isn't that what you've always said? And Agent Hoechst—Brian—is very pretty." 

She looked certain, and I rubbed my hand down my face. I needed a shave. "Did Ricky tell you?" 

Her eyes lit up in triumph and I knew I'd just fucked up. She hadn't been absolutely sure, but she was now, and I was too hung over to keep my damn mouth shut.

"So," she said, leaning toward me with her elbows on the table, "you help me, or I out him." She tilted her head and smiled, sarcastic and mean, with fake sweetness. "You're right, Lars. A single piece of information can change everything."

Bitch. I closed my eyes for a moment. "Mutually assured destruction."

"How do you mean?"

"You out Brian, and I give Shad Turner your work address."

"You lie to me, and his secret gay life is front page news."

"You talk to me before you out him. Remember, I'm going to be trying to get Turner to trust me. It may mean I do things or say things you don't like. Check with me first."

"So you can lie your way out of it?" She stood up, pushing the chair back with her legs and leaning over the table on her hands. With her pink baseball cap, and the red and swollen eyes, she looked demented and dangerous. Psycho Barbie.

"No." I bit my tongue around calling her a stupid bitch. Negotiations never went well when the insults started flying. "Look, the best way to get Turner is for him to trust me, right? That may mean saying what he wants to hear, even if he's not in the room."

"You may be right," she admitted, "but you do it with us, not on your own. I'm going to talk to Special Agent Hoechst about it and see if he agrees. You do what we tell you."

"No," I said.

"What? You are out of your depth here, Lars."

"Just that. No. It would be better if you two do what I tell you to do."

"No," she said. "We work together. We're trained for this, Lars, and you're not. We'll listen to your ideas."

"Okay, then I'll listen to yours, and we'll figure out what to do," I said, but I was thinking that I was smarter than both of them, and they'd better play it my way if they wanted to get Shad Turner.

Angie stood up straight. "Deal." She walked out of the kitchen, and I followed her to the door.

"Should we shake on it?" I asked, reaching out.

Instead of taking my hand she reared back and slugged me, hard, in the face. "Don't you ever call me a slut or a whore again," she said. "It's not like you've got a leg to stand on."

I held my head, realizing that I was going to have a black eye. "Fuck. What'd you need to do that for?"

"Understood?" she said.

I nodded, watching her shake out her hand. I hoped her knuckles bruised, except that I hoped they didn't so that no one would figure out who gave me the shiner.

"Have a nice day, Lars," she said sweetly, and I kicked the door closed behind her. The bitch was smarter than she looked. No wonder Ricky had liked her.


	32. Shadrach Turner calls

"So you won't do it?" Brian said. It was the first thing he'd said to me since this meeting started, and he sounded disgusted.

"No, I'm telling you I don't have the money," I said. 

Brian, Detective Riley, Angie and I stood awkwardly. There was nowhere to sit in Plan 9, other than the one chair in Ricky's office or the chill space, and the cops wouldn't let themselves do anything so undignified as to sink into the beanbag chairs or the couch.

We were at an impasse, and my head was too fucked up to deal with this. The ache from the black eye Angie gave me this morning didn't help the hangover, nor had the hair of the dog. Angie's hand looked fine, at least, so no questions there.

Riley said, "Are there options? Like I said, we can speed up the permitting process, but the city won't waive the fees."

Angie shook her head. "It's not in our budget at the bureau. I looked into it already." She started to say something else, but stopped herself.

I had an idea of where she was going, but she wasn't going to admit in front of Riley that she was Ricky's widow. "Until Ricky's estate goes through probate," I said, "I won't know if he left anything that would help."

"Probate?" said Riley, disbelieving. "Can't have been much."

"He was old New England money," I said. "By the way, has anyone contacted the family?"

"Yes," Angie and Riley said at the same time. Riley looked at her.

"All right," I said. "I'll see if I can come up with something." But that was for show. There was no quick way I could raise a few thousand dollars on my own for the fees to transfer the licenses to my name. Student loans would take forever. I wasn't hopeful. I'd watched Ricky deal with this stuff enough to know that the bureaucrats at City Hall wouldn't care if it would bring world peace for them to let something slide—if the paperwork wasn't in order, they would shut you down.

The phone rang, and I went into the office to answer. "Plan 9."

"Mr. Dahl?" said a deep voice. It took only those two words to recognize who it was. 

"Shadrach Turner," I said, gesturing to the others. Brian came into the office first, then Angie. Riley was left to lean in at the doorway. "Ricky's not here. What can I do for you?"

"And a good afternoon to you, too, Mr. Dahl."

"Forgetting my manners," I said, sarcastic. I was in no state to deal with Shad, but there he was, and this would be better with other ears to hear. We didn't have a speakerphone, so I motioned for one of them to come listen in. "And how are you this fine Friday afternoon, Mr. Turner?" They looked at each other and shuffled, until Brian stepped forward. He was the logical choice, but I could tell he wasn't interested in standing that close to me. I had to close my eyes against the smell of him, holding the phone so that he could hear, too. 

"As well as can be expected of a man my age," Turner said. "I hope you're well, Mr. Dahl."

"To be honest, I'm a bit hung over, but I hear time takes care of that," I said.

"And a good night's sleep," Turner said. "I'm sorry to have to disturb yours."

"How so?"

"I understand Mr. Cabot is no longer with us."

"He's dead, yes. You might say I was out last night drowning my sorrows." I glanced at Brian. His eyes were closed.

"It is probably intemperate of me to come directly to the point, but Miss Carter from No Rhodes Barred informed me you'd cancelled the show tomorrow."

"Yes, because I have no legal right to run the business."

"Ah, so Plan 9 will likely close then, in the absence of Mr. Cabot?"

"Everything's in his name," I said. We'd acted like partners, though, so it shouldn't surprise me that people assumed I had a stake in it, too. There was a pause on the other end while Turner processed this, so I said, "I'm looking for ways to take it over and keep it running."

"Young Master Trey informs me that you were aware of the work he was doing for me. Did you also know that Mr. Cabot had initiated efforts to bypass my services in bringing entertainment to your establishment?"

None of this made sense through my hangover. "Where did you hear that? What are you getting at?"

"The website?" Turner asked. "Miss Cunningham told me."

I didn't know who Miss Cunningham was. I paused, to let my words sink in. "I don't have any interest in changing how we book things. Except for one thing."

"What would that be?"

"No more bait and switch," I said. "No more pulling bands at the last minute to substitute your mules. And if you're going to move things through Plan 9, you cut the price for the bands, and don't start looking for a market in my club."

"Hmm," Turner rumbled. "You're not asking for a piece of the action, as they say?"

"Not at the moment. Just keep that shit out of the club, and don't jerk me around about which bands you're really sending."

"Hmm," he said again. "But you also tell me you have no legal right to run Plan 9."

"I'm working on that."

"Let me know when you have a solution. I'll also ask you not to become involved in the investigation of Mr. Cabot's death, and for you to apprise me of any developments along that line."

"The cops have the guy who did it," I said.

"Don't be disingenuous, Mr. Dahl. They have him in the morgue, as I understand it. What I don't know is what happened."

"Neither do I," I said. "All I know is they don't think I'm a suspect. Or so they say. Did you have anything to do with it?"

"Mr. Dahl, why would you think such a thing?" He sounded hurt, in that fake-genteel way. I wanted to spit. "I'm merely concerned that increased police attention could, shall we say, cause them to find things they're not currently looking for."

"Right," I said, sarcasm slipping out before I had a chance to rein it in. Damn, but this was not a good discussion for a hangover.

"You seem skeptical," Turner said.

"What do you want from me? I'm not exactly cop friendly."

"You arrived in a police car Wednesday evening."

Damn, I thought, remembering Trey in the crowd. "They wouldn't let me drive after drinking. What do you want?" I asked again.

"Re-open, work with me, and don't assist the police."

"All of those are easy, except I don't know how long it will take me to re-open, unless you want to front me the money for the licenses?"

Turner chuckled. "That might be possible. There would be a fee for borrowing, of course."

"I can imagine," I muttered. "I'll keep that in mind."

"We'll keep in touch, shall we, Mr. Dahl? I expect news that you're open in two weeks." That was too short, without a miracle or borrowing from him. Turner said, "In the mean time, I understand you've been friendly with an undercover member of law enforcement."

I tried to think, but the blood was pounding in my ears. "Keeping him distracted," I said. "Everyone knows he's a cop, but he doesn't know he's been made. If I change the way I act around him, he'll get suspicious."

"I see. Be careful."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"Good day, Mr. Dahl. Sleep well."

"Right. 'Bye, Shad," I said, and hung up the phone.

I turned. Brian stepped back. Riley was over by the stage, on his cell phone. When he saw that I was off the phone with Turner, he closed his cell and announced, "This guy's a real beauty. GBI thinks he's making porn in the studios he uses to shoot videos for his bands. Porn, extortion, drugs—"

"Plus loansharking," I muttered, as I sat in Ricky's chair and looked at Angie. 

Angie said to Brian, "He's laid the groundwork for Turner to think he's an ally, or at least a potential ally. There's a plan that might work."

I didn't look up. I couldn't believe she was supporting me. 

"That could be okay," Brian said.

"What?" I looked at him, surprised, but he was looking at the floor, his expression thoughtful.

"Seriously, if the idea is for you to lure him in to thinking you're an ally, then why not borrow money from him to get the licenses and re-open?"

No one said anything for a moment, but I could hear Riley on his cell phone over by the stage. I looked at Angie. "Should I take his money?"

"No," Angie said.

Brian raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Angie blew out a sigh. "I might be able to pull the fees together." 

"You can't," Brian said, "and you know it. It would cause all kinds of problems for the prosecution."

"And having me involved doesn't?" Angie asked.

I glanced to where Riley was standing by the stage, then leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. "Nothing spells _conflict of interest_ like _widow_." My brain was stuck in the mud. "I'll figure out something, okay?" Hell, if I owed Shad Turner money, maybe he'd feel he had more of a hold on me.

"In the mean time, the call's been traced," Riley said, walking over to us. "Land line down in Atlanta."

Angie ignored him. "The home office is probably going to call me back to Virginia. I don't want to leave. I thought Lars might have some ideas for changing their minds."

"Here's your idea," I said, standing up, and not looking at either of them. "I won't work with anyone but you two." I leaned over the desk, and it was enough to pull at the stitches. I flipped through Ricky's rolodex to the Ts. "Turner, Shadrach," I said, and grabbed a piece of scratch paper. "He probably called from this number, and here's the address." I wrote it down and handed it to them. "Now, can I please go home?"

"We need to coordinate strategy," Brian said.

"Tomorrow. I need to go to sleep," I said, "for a fucking year." My head was throbbing.

"Are you okay to drive?"

I glanced at Brian. He was looking at me with his eyebrows drawn together, his expression more concerned than his voice had sounded. "Yeah, now can you please get the hell out of here and let me lock up?"

It took a few minutes, and I didn't laugh when Riley looked at the paper with the number and cursed that he'd wasted the urgency on the trace.

When they were gone, I locked up and left, stopping for bad fast food on the way and eating it in the kitchen with a beer and a mystery novel. When I walked back to go to bed, I heard a beep. It was my cell phone, which I hadn't taken with me, and there was a message indicator. The voicemail was empty, but it kept beeping, and eventually I figured out that it meant there was a text message.

It was from Brian, sent while I was driving home, and it read `10pm`.

I drew a breath. What was he thinking? It took me five minutes to reply, figuring out the keyboard. `you sure?`

The answer came fifteen minutes later. `is ok. trust me`.

My head wanted to tell him not to come, but I went with my gut. `see you then`

`c u`, came the answer almost immediately. I remembered another reason I'd been avoiding technology for the last four years. The language killed me. I thought about sending him another message to let him know that Angie had figured out about us, but I was afraid he wouldn't come if he knew.

I set the alarm for 9:45 and went to bed. When the beeping woke me, I hit the snooze button. I slapped the clock to silence two more times, and was dozing when I heard the motorcycle engine cut off and my door open. Oh, crap. I rolled out of bed, shucking my boxer briefs and tossing them toward the corner where the laundry basket lived. I landed on my knees and stayed there, using my hands in my hair to try to get rid of the bed head, then waiting while he made his way through the dark house. Brian flipped on the bedroom light, and I kept my eyes closed against the brightness, irritated by the light, by his presumption, and by the fact that I'd knelt for him without considering other options.

When my eyes adjusted I looked up at him. He was wearing jeans and motorcycle boots paired with a blue polo shirt, like one of those kid's books where you can flip the pages to combine different animal tops and bottoms. He must have left his jacket in the living room. He leaned in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. When he noticed me looking, he pointed at his own eyes, then the floor. I looked down, focusing on his boots, and waited. I memorized every crack and scuff in the leather, breathing deep and trying to catch the smell of him in the air.

He said nothing. I waited for him to break the silence, to move, to do something, but he leaned there for what felt like a very long time. My emotions moved as I waited, irritation turning to anger. I listened to him breathe, and realized he was doing some thinking of his own, at one point nearly snorting like a bull about to charge. We waited it out, waded through it, until there was nothing left for me but want—shifting on my heels to look for sensation. That was the only time he moved, putting his hand on my shoulder to still me. I felt the touch in a warm spread down my arm long after he leaned back against the doorframe. Eventually he turned and walked out.

I heard the motorcycle start and the sound of him driving off. I stayed on my knees until my cell phone rang. I was slow to get it, unfreezing my joints as I tried to stand, but I answered during the fourth ring. "Hello."

"Do you want to jack off?" Brian said.

"Hell, yes."

"Don't," he said, and hung up.

 _Bastard_ , I thought, but I took a cold shower.


	33. There's a will

Ricky's estate lawyer, Greya Windham, was a battle axe, but so was Mrs. Allen Cabot. I glanced at Angie, and she looked like a mouse being fought over by an owl and a cat. She caught me looking, and I grinned at her, trying to tell her to relax and enjoy the show. She rolled her eyes. I'd spent most of the weekend in the library, keeping my head in academics, trying not to think about things I couldn't fix, and all of yesterday at different banks, trying to fix them. A little real-life political action was entertaining.

Ricky's lawyer and his mother were well-matched opponents, for all they looked opposite. Windham was an attractive, stout dyke with a soft-draped suit and silver hair. Mrs. Cabot looked like a caricature of the wealthy matron, crisply tailored with a blond bob serving as a helmet. She'd barely honored us with a glance all morning.

"Mrs. Cabot," Windham said, "I can find new words to say the same thing, but by my tally this is the fourth time I've said that Rick's will should stand up to any challenge. He supplied me with copies of the original trust documents, including all codicils he could find. Unless the family attorneys in Boston were less than forthcoming, I believe his estate plan should be honored without challenge."

"We never even met this alleged wife," Mrs. Cabot said. I put a hand on Angie's arm. I didn't think she'd go after Ricky's mom, but she was tense and had started forward at alleged. With the black eye she'd given me, I wasn't sure what she'd do. Assaulting Ricky's mother wasn't going to help anything, although it might have been fun to watch. After spending all of yesterday trying to find money to open Plan 9 in my name, watching the rich snob take a punch would have amused the fuck out of me. The snob said, "And his name was Richard."

"My husband preferred to be called Rick," Angie said.

"Or Ricky," I added.

Now she looked our way. She glared at us, and I shrugged, just to piss her off. She said, "We haven't called him Ricky since he was nine years old. If you were his wife, you'd know his name."

"Richard Allen Cabot," Angie said, "born on March twenty-eighth, nineteen seventy eight. Late afternoon, I believe, and his father complimented him on arriving just in time for cocktails. His father was Allen Richard, and he died about eight years ago, and you last saw Rick at the funeral. Your first name is Josephine, but your family calls you Dodo. Sometimes people call you the Empress behind your back, and you pretend you don't like it, but you do."

Mrs. Cabot's expression had been mildly dismissive until the line about Ricky's father, and as Angie's recitation continued, her eyes widened. Compared to the cool control she'd shown through the whole meeting, it was a good as a full, open-mouthed gape on anyone else. Angie's voice strengthened, and most of the mouse dropped off. She even sat up straighter as the words came out.

Windham chimed in, "And you've seen the certified copy of the marriage license."

Mrs. Cabot took a deep breath and seemed to recover her composure. She turned back to Windham. "May I please have a copy of the documents to take back to my attorney?"

"For what purpose? You are not named as an heir. You are at this meeting by your own request and the courtesy of Mr. Cabot's inheritors. If you want the documents provided, file suit or obtain them through probate records in ninety days." Windham stood and came out from behind her desk, Mrs. Cabot stood, and Angie and I followed their lead. "You are more than welcome to waste your money in what I assume will be a futile pursuit." 

"We'll see," Mrs. Cabot said calmly.

Windham leaned back against her desk and studied Mrs. Cabot for a moment. "Normally I wouldn't make a personal remark like this, but given the size of the family fortune, why all this squabble over a mere million? Rick died without issue, and by the terms of the trust, his portion reverts back to the family. The only monies in question were those under his personal control, free from lien, obligation, or any kind of prior commitment."

"It's the principle," Mrs. Cabot said. "I wouldn't normally make such a personal remark, either, but Miss Grissom—"

"Mrs. Richard Cabot," Angie interrupted, her tone firm. I wanted to give her a high five for the ghost of a shocked and sour look that passed over Ricky's mother's face.

"C'mon, Dodo," I said. "Be friendly and call her Angie. Or Special Agent Grissom will do if you can't get your mouth around Mrs. Cabot."

"Lars, shut up," Angie said, but there was no sting in it.

"I'm sorry," I said to Mrs. Cabot. "You were saying?"

She snorted twice, as ladylike and patrician as a snort could be. "Richard never saw fit to inform us of his marriage."

"He told someone," I said, "or he wouldn't have had access to his trust."

Her mouth pulled into a thin line. "Our family attorneys can be discreet to a fault." She looked at Angie. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

Angie raised her eyebrows. "Which answer do you want to hear?"

"The truth."

"I wish I had Rick's baby, but I don't," Angie said, her voice cold and hard. "My only consolation is I'll never have to explain to the kid what a snob his grandmother is."

Mrs. Cabot stepped back. "I'm sorry," she said, not contrite but matter of fact, and she looked at Angie, searching and curious, for the first time. "You have lost your husband, I suppose."

"And you've lost your son," Angie said, an edge in her voice, "but you're here talking about money."

Mrs. Cabot took a breath before replying. "I can see how that must appear." She turned to Windham. "I would like a copy of my son's will, and a summary of his estate plans. It might tell me things about his life he did not choose to share with me. Yes, my attorneys will look at it, but unless there is anything egregious, I can tell you I won't contest it."

Windham raised an eyebrow. "You'll pardon my skepticism, I hope. You've spent a full hour arguing and insisting you'll try to break the will."

Mrs. Cabot looked back to Angie. "Perhaps we can let my son's widow decide. May I take you to lunch, Miss Gr— Mrs. Ca— Oh, dear." Ricky's mother turned away from us and walked over to the window, her shoulders pulled up tense, elbows tight to her side. She fumbled at her bag and produced a handkerchief. 

I looked at Angie. "You okay?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"I should go to lunch with her," she said, also quiet, her eyes on Mrs. Cabot. "Rick hadn't spoken to her since his dad died. He said he didn't even speak to her at the funeral. She'll want to know a lot of things."

"If he didn't talk to her, he didn't want her to know." I turned her away from Ricky's mom and whispered, "I'm not sure that isn't a performance." Angie nodded once. "Maybe you should bring me with you." She looked up at me, eyebrows together. "I can behave," I said. She rolled her eyes.

I glanced up to Mrs. Cabot, who still faced the window. It was too bright outside to see much of a reflection, but her head was bowed and she held her hand to her face. I wondered if she were grieving or plotting. Windham had gone back to her desk, ignoring us for the moment and looking at something on her computer.

"Where've you been?" Angie whispered. "You weren't around all weekend, and we looked for you all day on Monday."

"I was in the library." I didn't tell her I'd spent Monday visiting bank loan officers. I didn't want to remember the humiliation. "And who's we?"

"The library for three days? We means me and the agents sent in for the kidnapping case."

Kidnapping? I wondered what had happened while I was ignoring the world. I said, "Okay," then changed the subject, even though I didn't want to. "Are you going to lunch with her?"

"I feel like I should."

Part of me felt I should throw her to the wolf, and part of me wanted to watch the show. "I'll go with you, if you want," I offered again.

Angie almost snorted. "Oh, she'd love being seen with you."

I smiled. "All the more reason." I broke off from Angie and walked over to Windham. "So can you explain to me what this means for me?"

She looked up from her computer and turned her chair to face me. "Mr. Cabot created a trust to help you run Plan 9. I thought it rather silly at the time, given Mr. Cabot's age and health, but it appears that you and the business meant a great deal to him. You have access to an income of two thousand dollars a month from the half million dollar trust. You may use it in any way related to Plan 9, including paying yourself. If you close the club, the funds in the trust revert to Ricky's primary heir, his wife."

"Huh," I said. This was the second time I'd heard it, but it didn't seem any more real. "Well, that's very nice, but I'll never see it. Until I get the money to change the names on the licenses, I can't run the club, and by the time this thing goes through probate, I'll have lost the lease. No chance of an advance, I guess?"

"The soonest you would see any money is ninety days," she said. "You might be able to secure a loan based on the future income."

"Have you looked at me?" I said, remembering yesterday, being turned down by one bank officer after another, and not able to tell them that a girl's safety might depend on it. I wasn't going back to them again, and I didn't think this trust fund would suddenly put me into the good risk category, not after what they'd said. "The only person who would loan me money is a loan shark."

Windham looked at me. "This is about more than the business, isn't it?"

"You'd have to ask Agent Grissom," I said. "And what makes you say that?"

"You weren't as quiet as you might have thought. I heard the word kidnapping. Also, you've been calling her Angie all morning, until I asked you what else was going on. Then she became Agent Grissom."

Crap. She was smart. "Not now," I said.

Windham glanced over at Mrs. Cabot, then reached to a holder on her desk and picked up a business card. She handed it to me. "Keep in touch," was all she said.


	34. There's a way

We stood in the lobby of building where Greya Windham had her small office. I pretended to study the directory. Windham's entry showed a bunch of letters after her name that I didn't recognize beyond JD. More fodder for research, I thought, and scratched under my rainbow wrist bands where the cuts and scrapes itched as they healed. I had my back to Angie and Mrs. Cabot, who were stiffly discussing where to go for lunch. Ricky's mom was not thrilled at any of the chain restaurant suggestions, and Angie hadn't lived here in a while.

I turned. "How about Le Jardin?" I asked. "French, emphasis on local produce, and I hear the pastries are good." It would also cost my food budget for a week, but Mrs. Cabot would probably pick up the bill. Besides, and I had a trick up my sleeve for disarming Mrs. Cabot, at least somewhat.

"All right," she said. "You'll be joining us, I hope," she said in a tone that indicated she was asking for the sake of politeness.

"It would be my pleasure." I smiled at her, bowing slightly with my hands behind my back, black eye and all, and she blanched, if ever so slightly. "Perhaps I could give Angie a ride and you could follow me? It's a bit off the beaten path."

"Of course."

We went to our cars, and I idled at the exit to the parking lot for Mrs. Cabot and her rental sedan.

Angie fidgeted, then asked, "Have you seen Brian?" 

I pulled into traffic, and checked to see that Mrs. Cabot had followed. "Have you?" I asked.

"He met with us yesterday, which was why we were trying to find you, for a meeting. He seemed a little off." That was interesting. "Did you tell him that I know?"

I shook my head. I hadn't had the nerve, and Brian hadn't set things up for talking. Every afternoon since Friday he'd sent a time to my phone, and expected me to be there. All he did was wait, watch me kneel, and remind me not to jack off. I'd woken myself this morning with a wet dream, the first in several years, and starring Brian, of course. If he'd wanted me at that meeting, he could have told me when and where.

"Have you seen him?" she asked again. I must have been quiet for too long.  
Angie fidgeted, then asked, "Have you seen Brian?" 

I pulled into traffic, and checked to see that Mrs. Cabot had followed. "Have you?" I asked.

"He met with us yesterday, which was why we were trying to find you, for a meeting. He seemed a little off." That was interesting. "Did you tell him that I know?"

I shook my head. I hadn't had the nerve, and Brian hadn't set things up for talking. Every afternoon since Friday he'd sent a time to my phone, and expected me to be there. All he did was wait, watch me kneel, and remind me not to jack off. I'd woken myself this morning with a wet dream, the first in several years, and starring Brian, of course. If he'd wanted me at that meeting, he could have told me when and where.

"Have you seen him?" she asked again. I must have been quiet for too long.

"Every night. We're not exactly talking."

Angie smirked. "I'll bet."

"It's not like that." I bit my tongue around the urge to talk to her. I was alone in this, without even Ricky to give me shit about it. I had no idea what was happening with me and Brian, why he was coming back every night just to watch me kneel and want him. 

"What's it like?" Angie sounded like she actually cared.

"I fucked up, and he doesn't trust me." There. It was out.

She snorted. "Why would anybody trust you?" I didn't have an answer for that, nothing that would make it past the flat feeling in my chest, and when I said nothing, Angie said, "Wow. I've never seen you speechless before." I opened my mouth for a comeback, but there was nothing to say. The silence stretched for a long moment, until she said, "You actually care about him. Really care."

I'd had a lot of time to think during those five nights on my knees, but all I could do was nod and swallow back things I couldn't deal with right now. "So," I said, changing the subject, "kidnapping?"

"Blue is missing." 

"How missing?"

"Missing persons report missing. Her room-mate saw her get into a car she didn't recognize."

"Blue's not that stupid. Was she tripping?"

Angie shook her head. "Broad daylight. The car had Georgia plates, Lars."

I could feel my stomach clench. "And you're just telling me this now?"

"I told you we tried to find you."

"Has anyone talked to Trey?"

"Three agents questioned him in front of his parents." 

"That's enough to spook Turner if he gets wind of it. What did he say?"

"He says he doesn't know." Angie lowered her voice. "I don't think he's telling the truth."

No shit. "What have you learned?"

Angie said, "Her real name is Bethany Cunningham."

"Holy crap. I'd change my name, too."

Angie just glared at me. "Her parents are ready to pay any ransom, but we don't actually know if it's kidnapping. That was the meeting Monday, with the parents, the other FBI agents and the local officials. You should have been there."

"Why? And I'm not that hard to find."

"Right, as long as we put out an APB," Angie said. "We think it has to do with Turner, and maybe you could have explained what was going on."

I turned onto the country road that would take us to Le Jardin. "Do you really know she's with Turner?"

"No, not for sure, but she's not answering her cell phone."

"Why would she even go there?"

"I don't know?" Angie posed it as a question, and for some reason it got to me.

"If Turner pulled Blue into—" I started to say something about drugs, and then broke off, remembering the word porn. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" I said, and then laughed at the very bad joke. "He's going to make her a fucking porn star."

"Fucking's what they usually do," Angie said with dry humor.

It hit me the wrong way, and I snapped. "Shut up. Just shut up!" I didn't want to think about it, didn't want to remember that I had said something about Turner to Blue. It felt like my fault she was mixed up in this. And that was one more thing I didn't need.

I pulled into the parking lot of a rambling mansion, the last part of an old plantation that had somehow survived the burnings of the Civil War. I'd only been here once before, and then just to see the place. I looked at the columns, the flowers, at anything that might distract me, and forced myself to calm down. 

"Lars," Angie started.

"There is no part of my life that is not entirely fucked up, and most of it wasn't my fault, except for Blue."

"How is Blue your fault?" Angie said, her voice slightly choked. "Her house mate said that the car pulled up, and Blue left, and didn't come back. We have no clue if it's even Turner who has her." I looked at her. She was looking at her hands. I opened my mouth to tell her about what Trey had said to Blue about Turner having a lot going on, about me getting in on something big, but I didn't have to. Angie said, "We've both made some major mistakes here. You were a jerk. As you pointed out, I was stupid and got Ricky killed." 

"Not stupid, just green," I said.

"Same thing."

I looked and saw Mrs. Cabot waiting for us at the door to the house. I nudged Angie with my elbow. "You weren't the one to try to mess up the crime scene," I said, trying to make a joke out of who had fucked up the most.

She looked up at me, giving in too easily, I thought, until she half smiled and said, "And I'm not the one that screwed things up with my DEA boyfriend by doing it."

That hurt, but we needed to be cool for Mrs. Cabot, so I said, "Or got a black eye from a girl."

"From a highly trained FBI agent," Angie corrected, sounding smug, but then she looked down again. "But not trained enough."

"None of that," I said. "Time to make conversation with the Yankee rich bitch." No time to think about Blue.

We got out of the car and joined Mrs. Cabot. I held the door for them both, but let Mrs. Cabot take the lead with the Maitre D'. I whispered a message in his ear before we sat down. We went through a stiff process of seating and choosing food. I ignored all the suits and lunching ladies who looked on me with disdain. I resisted the urge to ask aloud how many of the business types had read my damn book.

The Maitre D' must have delivered my message, because shortly after the waiter took our orders, my old friend Janet appeared wearing kitchen whites and smiling. "Lars!" I rose to give her a hug. We'd thrown a party at Plan 9 when she left for culinary school, and the last time I'd seen her was at my door, saying goodbye the morning after, sleepy and satisfied. I'd heard she was back as the pastry chef for Le Jardin, which was why I'd suggested it. People like Mrs. Cabot like having an in. "I'm not even going to ask where you got that black eye," she said. Janet reached up and ran her finger along my ear, flipping the rings. "Three new ones." She tugged at them. "Three years since I've seen you."

I tensed slightly and pulled back. My body had a whole new reaction to pulls on my earrings, thanks to Brian. It wasn't like I didn't have a conditioned response to Janet, either, but she didn't notice, or pretended not to. "You look great," I said. She did, her hair still the same glistening, dark magenta, pulled back under her hat. The white jacket didn't show much, but I'd felt her curves during the hug. She'd gained a little weight, but it was in the right places. I'd resisted the urge to find out how much her familiar landscape had changed. It was a high-class place, and groping the pastry chef wouldn't go down well.

"What brings you here?" she asked, glancing past me to the women at the table.

"You heard what happened, right?"

Janet nodded, her smile fading. "Yeah. I'm sorry about Ricky."

I turned to introduce her. "Janet Caine, this is Mrs. Cabot, Ricky's mom, and Mrs. Cabot, Ricky's widow." I thought it best not to use Angie's name. If Janet didn't recognize her from back in the day, I wasn't going to help. The last thing I wanted was Mrs. Cabot getting wind of Angie's reputation.

"My pleasure," Janet said, "and I'm sorry for the reason you're in town. As much as food can console, we'll do our best for you today." 

I knew I could count on her to say the right thing. She looked up at me, and I leaned to kiss her cheek and whisper, "Thank you."

"Call me," she said. "We can just hang out if you want."

"I will."

She smiled gently at Angie and Mrs. Cabot, and returned to the kitchen. I retook my chair. Mrs. Cabot eyed me. "Janet's an old friend," I explained. "She trained at the Culinary Institute of America and is the pastry chef here."

"Ah," said Mrs. Cabot, looking at me as if trying to decide if I were worth reappraising. After a moment, she looked over to Angie. "I suppose there's no delicate way to start this conversation. How did you meet my son?"

I only half listened as Angie told her about talking with Rick one night after Plan 9 closed, and how it grew from there, how they'd married right before she graduated. Mostly I thought about Blue—Bethany—and Brian and school. I ate my salad and watched them pick at theirs while Mrs. Cabot quizzed Angie about the long-distance marriage. When she made the third comment about how hard it must have been, it started looking to me like she was trying to catch Angie cheating on Ricky.

"He loved her," I said, remembering the look on his face the day she showed up unexpected at Plan 9.

They both turned to me, surprised. "What?" I asked. "He was happy with you," I said to Angie. "He told me."

Angie looked down, her mouth in a tight line, then put her napkin up to her eyes. It reminded me a bit too much of the scene in my kitchen with the dishtowel. Mrs. Cabot turned her attention to me, either allowing Angie some privacy, or, more likely, ignoring the unseemly display. "And how did you meet my son?"

"At a concert on campus. We were sort of partners in Plan 9. He was the money, and I was the face."

Her eyes flicked around, looking at my black eye, and at the eyebrow rings and earrings. "Face," she repeated. Her tone was flat, but it was a question.

"Front man. I worked the door, kept the crowd under control, generally helped out."

"He cleaned the bathrooms, too," Angie said. She was back in control, and being a brat. 

Great, I thought. I tell her something nice, and she tells the snob I was the charwoman. 

"I see," said Mrs. Cabot. "I suppose you'll carry on the business?" 

"I'd like to," I said. "I need to raise money to transfer the licenses. They were all in Ricky's name."

"Well, the best of luck. Was it a successful business, this Plan 9?"

"We made enough money to pay me, Ricky, and expenses. No one was getting rich."

"It wasn't just about money for Rick," Angie said. "He liked supporting a community. There was no other place for the punk kids to hang out, no place for live music. Plan 9 gave them that."

"I see," Mrs. Cabot said, but I doubted that she understood.

I wasn't sure I understood. Maybe I did know those things mattered to Ricky. He liked the music, but it wasn't like he looked like one of us freaks. Maybe his way of being punk was to refuse to look punk. I stared at my entrée, which had appeared without my noticing, and wondered what had made Ricky tick. I realized I hadn't known him anywhere near as well as I'd thought.

Mrs. Cabot delicately cleared her throat. "I understand my son's remains were cremated."

"Yes," Angie said. "It was what he wanted."

"I should like to hold a memorial service in Boston, and bury the ashes with the rest of the family."

"He didn't want that," Angie said quietly.

"What did he want?"

Angie looked up, with the half-smile I was learning to take as a warning. "I believe he said, Torch me and toss me out, honey. I don't need any real estate when I'm dead. He left the disposition of his ashes to my discretion, but I think he'd like to be scattered in a garden somewhere. I'll probably do that. My mother grows some amazing flowers, and he liked my mother."

Mrs. Cabot closed her eyes, taking the last remark as intended, but not backing down. "Please," she said, looking back at Angie. "It would mean a great deal to me and to the rest of the family." 

"None of you had seen him since his father's funeral. How much could a box of ashes mean?" Angie asked.

"When you're older, you might understand."

Angie sat up straight. "You can hold whatever service you like, but my husband's cremains are my property."

"That is such an ugly word," Mrs. Cabot said, her voice quiet. "Ashes has a better, mournful ring, don't you think."

Angie didn't say anything. I speared a green bean, held it up and said, "Haricots verts sounds better, too, but it's still a green bean." Angie glared at me. I ate the bean.

"It would mean a great deal to us," Mrs. Cabot said again, ignoring me. "Funerals are for the living, after all." She paused and added, "You would be welcome." She almost looked like she meant it.

Angie looked at Mrs. Cabot, and then at me. "Lars, this is a pre-emptive _shut up_ , got it?" She narrowed her eyes and didn't look away until I raised my hands in surrender. She turned to Mrs. Cabot. "I'll bring the ashes to your service, and let you bury them, under a few conditions."

It was a good thing she'd told me to shut up, because I would have argued with her about giving in. I didn't know why Ricky hated his mother, but I knew that he did. Mrs. Cabot tilted her head. "What are the conditions?"

Angie ticked them off on her fingers. "You don't contest the will. I take a portion of the ashes to my mother's garden." Mrs. Cabot nodded at the first two. Angie paused and added a third. "You consult with me on the date and time of the memorial, and schedule it for my convenience." There was a pause before Mrs. Cabot's nod, but she agreed. Then Angie surprised us both. "You write Lars a check for ten thousand dollars."

"What?" I said, loud enough to earn looks from other diners.

"The pre-emptive shut up still stands," Angie said, not looking away from Mrs. Cabot.

I said nothing, but Mrs. Cabot asked the question for me. "Why?"

"Because without that money, Lars won't be able to keep Plan 9, thanks to the ninety-day probate delay, and it was Rick's wish that Lars keep the business."

I sat back, admiring. Angie managed to keep the investigation out of the discussion, and back Mrs. Cabot into a corner. She was also giving up a half million dollars, at least for a while, since the Plan 9 trust went to her if I went out of business. Mrs. Cabot said, "I dislike the thought of having to buy my son's ashes."

"You're not," Angie said. "I'm merely using them as a leverage point to get you to help fulfill the intent of your son's will."

Mrs. Cabot looked at Angie for a long moment, but before she could say anything, the Maitre D' came over to see if everything was all right. We looked at our food, untouched but for my one green bean, and Mrs. Cabot said, "The conversation has been most interesting. Shall we?" She glanced between me and Angie. We tasted, approved, and the Maitre D' went away. Janet had probably told him to take very good care of us.

The break in the conversation was good. I ate and started to plan how I was going to run Plan 9. The guys from Rabid Ramirez, the ones who could run a soundboard, were first on my list to call. No, Shad Turner was first. I hoped Blue was okay. 

"Lars?" Angie said, and I realized she'd been trying to get my attention. 

"Sorry. What can I do for you?"

"I was telling Mrs. Cabot that you're planning to be back in grad school while you're running Plan 9."

"Yes," I said, "finishing my doctorate in political science."

"How interesting," Mrs. Cabot said, not sounding like she wanted to hear more, but looking at me as if she were ready to consider me human.

"It's interesting to me," I said, smiling and enjoying fucking with her head.

Janet came to the table with a tray holding several slices of cake and fancy pastries. "Hello. We don't usually serve some these at lunch, but I made a few special for you. Please," she said, holding the tray first to Mrs. Cabot. "Choose what you would like." When she offered the tray to me, she handed me a card with her phone number on it.

I have no idea what the thing I picked was called, but it was good. Even Mrs. Cabot said, "Your friend has quite a talent." She insisted on picking up the bill, and as we stood outside under the portico to make our goodbyes, she said, "I can give you a check this afternoon."

"A bank check," Angie said. "Something that will clear right away."

"I sense some urgency."

"He needs to make rent, soon. They've already lost one weekend's income."

I kept out of it, not telling them that I could sign checks on the Plan 9 account, and letting Angie finish the bargain she'd begun.

"I see," said Mrs. Cabot. Turning to me she said, "Can I deliver it to you at Plan 9? This afternoon, or is tomorrow morning soon enough?"

"How about late afternoon? That will give you the rest of the business day."

She looked at me, mildly disdainful. "It will only take a few minutes to produce the check. It's about one thirty now. Shall we meet at three? You can deposit it right away."

I ignored her tone. "Okay. Plan 9 at three o'clock."

We shook hands all around, like at the end of some formal summit, and I drove Angie back to her car. Neither of us felt like talking.


	35. In which Blue goes missing

I sat in Ricky's chair, looking at the bank balance. There was only $250 in the Plan 9 account, barely enough for the utility and water bills I'd just opened. Soon, those worries would be over. Mrs. Cabot would be here in about five minutes. 

I thought about calling Shad Turner, but decided to wait until the money was really there and the paperwork for the licenses was at least in progress. I wondered how he was treating Blue, and what she was doing. I didn't think Turner was going to trust me that easily. How was I going to have to act?

I jumped when a voice said, "Mr. Dahl?"

It was Mrs. Cabot. I hadn't heard the door. I stood to shake her hand. "Welcome to Plan 9. Care for the tour?"

"I can see most things from here," she said.

"Please, sit down." I gestured at Ricky's chair.

"That's quite all right." She pulled an envelope out of her purse. "My son's widow made a bargain with me, and now I'll make one with you."

"Distasteful as it is," I said, looking down at her pinched expression. "And I don't think Angie intended there to be conditions."

"I would ask you even without this," she said, gesturing with the envelope. "How did my son die?"

"Didn't the police tell you?"

"He was shot. Someone shot and killed the person who did it. They won't tell me who that was."

That was interesting. "Did they say why they won't tell you?"

She nearly spat. "Part of an ongoing investigation." She held up the envelope. "What do you know?"  
I wanted that damn envelope, but I couldn't say anything. The cops and the feds wanted it quiet, and her interference would mess with my own plans. I said, "Not much."

"Where did he die?"

I stepped past her and walked to where I'd scrubbed out the bloodstain. "Here." I stepped away and let her stand on the spot, her mouth in a tight line. "You want a minute?" She nodded, so I walked back to the office and called Brian on my cell phone. He let it go to voice mail. I hung up and sent him a text message: business 

I called again, and this time he answered. "This is Special Agent Hoechst."

"Lars Dahl, here," I said, trying to keep a lid on the sarcasm. "I have a question."

"What can I do for you?"

I bit my tongue around any number of answers, each of them obscene suggestions. "Mrs. Cabot is with me here at Plan 9. She's asking questions about her son's death."

"Are you answering?"

"What's to say?" 

"Thanks." He sounded relieved. "What's the question."

I closed the office door. "She has a check for me for ten thousand dollars, and she won't give it to me unless I talk." 

"What?"

"You heard me. Angie talked her into it, or something." 

"Or something?"

"Sort of blackmail, actually," I said.

"Huh," he said. "Who knew she had it in her?"

"I need the money, Brian. You need me to have the money. What can I tell her?"

"Tell her to wait ten minutes."

"Are you coming down?" My stitches suddenly started to irritate me, and I pressed the heel of my hand over my kidney, trying to soothe without scratching.

"Let me handle it," was all he said, and cut the connection.

I walked out of the office. Mrs. Cabot was looking at the painting on the walls, mostly tags by various bands that had come through. "If you'd care to wait ten minutes," I said, "someone involved in the investigation will be here. He'll answer what he can."

She turned as I spoke, and I was struck by the contrast of her clean edges with the purposeful squalor of Plan 9. Oh, the place was clean enough, but there was no disguising an industrial building. Rusting girders ran up the walls and across the roof, stage lights hanging from them in a cluster over the stage, and there was spray-painted graffiti everywhere. She held herself as if trying not to touch anything. I thought Ricky would be amused. "Thank you," she said. 

I leaned against one of the support beams, which was covered with padding to avoid accidents from the mosh pit, and prepared to wait. I hoped Brian's explanation would be short enough that I could get to the bank with that check. I wanted nothing more than to start the wheels turning that would make this place mine. With that thought came a question: Was it really what I wanted? Without Rick, with school back in my future, did I really want to run a break-even performance space?

"Mr. Dahl?"

I looked up at Ricky's mother. "I'm sorry. Yes?"

"You do tend to get lost in thought, don't you?"

"Curse of the academic, I'm afraid."

"You'll pardon me for saying so, but you don't look like the typical academic."

"Just add a tweed jacket with elbow patches, and I blend into the university scenery."

She laughed at that, a short noise that sounded as if it had been practiced out of sounding like a bark. "I can't imagine you blending in anywhere. Anywhere but here," she amended, looking around.

"I stand out here, too," I said. "It's the hair."

The phone rang. "Excuse me." I walked over to the office. "Plan 9."

"Lars, it's Angie. The FBI has upgraded Blue's disappearance to possible kidnapping."

"Based on what?"

"She didn't pack a bag. All her stuff is in her room, near as the roommate can tell." I didn't say anything. "So it's even more important to find out if Turner has her."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"You could ask him," she said. "Won't you be calling him to say that you've got the money to reopen?"

A thought struck me. "Did you know about this earlier? That it had been upgraded?"

"Not for sure."

"Don't fuck around with me when you give me information, Angie."

"I'm not! I didn't know."

"We need to make a deal, right now. We have to trust each other."

"That means you, too."

"I know. I promise. Truth, no games, and we work together."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

I played my trump. "Ricky did."

She didn't say anything for a long moment. "Okay."

"I have to go," I said. "She's still here and Brian's on his way to talk with her. She wants to know what happened, and since I promised not to talk about it. I'll let him handle her."

"Okay, just, just keep in touch.

"You, too." I hung up the phone, and turned back to the door. Mrs. Cabot stood about ten feet away, and turned.

"Tell me about Richard. Was he happy?"

I didn't know why she thought I could answer that question. "I think he was." 

"Did you know him well?"

Before the last two weeks I would have said yes. Now I wasn't so sure. "I knew him as well as anyone, I guess.

"And the wife?"

"Angie?" I shrugged and stepped to lean in the doorway. "I knew her before they got married."

"If I may ask, in the Biblical sense?"

I couldn't believe this. It was none of her damn business. "No," I said. "What the hell makes you ask that?"

"Private investigators can be useful. When the police weren't talking, I asked for inquiries to be made. Angela Grissom had a bit of a reputation. Was it deserved?"

The question was pointed. I snorted. "Before Ricky, maybe. After, I don't think so."

"They say he caught her in that office with another man."

"So? He married her." I didn't like to remember my own reaction to that scene. 

"If she was unfaithful, I can break the will. I'll give you the check anyway, but there's more if you'll help me."

No way in hell would I help this bitch, and choosing between her and Angie wasn't hard. Choosing Angie was choosing Ricky. My only hesitation was the money she held in that envelope. "I can't help you Mrs. Cabot," I said, thinking of a way out.

"Why not? You think she was faithful to him?"

I looked directly into her eyes. "I don't think a mother should really want to know about her son's sexual kinks, but I can detail a few if you like. If Angie had sex with other men while they were married, it was not without his knowledge, or encouragement. In fact, he was probably there."

She went white. It was probably the last thing she expected me to say. Before she could respond, there was a flare of brightness as the door opened. Brian walked in.

"Special Agent Hoechst," I said. It was the first time I'd seen him without being naked and on my knees in almost a week. I looked down at him, trying to keep any expression off my face.

"Mr. Dahl." Brian had his cop mask on, but his glance at me lasted longer than it should have.

"This is Mrs. Cabot," I said. "Ricky's mother."

Brian held out his hand, but Mrs. Cabot said, "Can I see some identification, please." Brian pulled out his ID and held it out at eye level. She reached to take it, but he did not let go, and she covered by behaving as if she were holding the bottom of the folder merely to steady it as she read aloud, "Drug Enforcement Administration."

"Yes, ma'am." He slid the ID back into his pocket.

"Was my son involved in something—unsavory?" I could hear the aftermath of my revelation in her choice of words.

"No, ma'am, he was not under investigation. In fact, he was aiding the investigation of a major designer drug operation."

"And Mr. Dahl, here?" She glanced at me as if wanting to dismiss me, or hoping I was under investigation. Brian disappointed her.

"Mr. Dahl is a key element in bringing your son's killer to justice."

"I thought my son's killer had been shot. They won't tell me by whom. Was it you?"

"No, ma'am."

She crossed her arms. "I've heard that a woman shot him. My daughter-in-law is an FBI agent, it seems. Was it her?"

"How did you come to hear that, ma'am?"

When Mrs. Cabot didn't answer, I said, "She hired a private investigator. She asked me about Angie's reputation."

Brian looked back to Mrs. Cabot. "Then let me also tell you that Special Agent Grissom has a reputation as an excellent markswoman, and leave it at that." Mrs. Cabot did not look satisfied. "This is an ongoing investigation, ma'am. We do not want the person who hired the thug that killed your son to get wind of the fact that Miss Grissom is an agent, or that she is Ricky's widow."

I remembered the restaurant, and how I'd introduced Angie to my old friend Janet. "Cat's out of the bag on that last one, or at least that Ricky was married."

"What?" Brian's face darkened.

"I'll tell you later."

"Now," he ordered, irritated.

I took a breath. "We were at lunch, and I introduced Angie as Mrs. Cabot, Ricky's widow."

"To who?"

"An old friend. Look, I think I can do damage control." I took Janet's card out of my pocket. "Let me go deal with this after I stop by the bank."

"I want to know everything," Mrs. Cabot said, reminding us she was there. "Why would it be bad for Mr. Dahl to have introduced Angie as Richard's widow?"

Brian glanced at me, and I asked him, "Do the local cops know they were married?"

He shook his head. "Just you, me, the FBI agents, and whoever you opened your trap to at lunch."

"And me," Mrs. Cabot said with a tone that said she wasn't used to being ignored.

"Her name is Janet Caine. I can put a lid on this." I didn't like my own placating tone.

"When did you tell her?" Brian demanded. "She's had how many hours to gossip about it?" 

"She doesn't know it's Angie. I only called her Mrs. Cabot, and I don't think Janet recognized her."

"Get on it," Brian said, "and let me know how it stands."

I walked over to Mrs. Cabot and pulled the envelope from her fingers. "I'm sure Special Agent Hoechst will answer your questions," I said. I turned from her and walked by Brian. "You want the key to lock up?" I asked Brian.

He looked me in the eye. "Sure. I'll bring it by later."

I left them to it.


	36. In which declarations are made.

I looked at the deposit slip on the seat next to me, half under the sixpack of beer I'd just bought. It felt good to see those nice round numbers in the Plan 9 account, and I focused on that. Tomorrow I would pay the license application fees, and call Shad Turner, and get Blue home. After that, we'd re-open. I'd re-open. The thought of doing it myself was almost overwhelming, but if I was going to run a club, I would have to start taking care of business. The first order of business after depositing the check was making sure Janet hadn't told anyone about the two Mrs. Cabots.

Janet said she hadn't known Ricky was married, and she would pretend she still didn't know it if it made such a big difference. I told her that I wished I could tell her how much of a difference it made. She turned the goodbye hug into a full-fledged pass, but I couldn't do it, and she seemed okay with me turning her down, although she laughed at me when I told her why. Between her and that deposit slip, I was starting to feel like things would turn out okay.

I heard a beep from my phone. There was a text message from Brian. It read, `930`.

Things were going to be okay, and no way in hell was I meeting him on my knees again. 

I kept myself busy until it was time for him to show up, trying not to think about him, or about Janet, and failing. There was only one conclusion I could draw from my own behavior. At about 9:25 I poured myself a drink, put the bottle and another glass and on the side table, and turned off the lights. In a few minutes I heard the motorcycle, then his key in the door. He didn't see me sitting in the living room as he walked to the bedroom and flipped on the light, expecting to find me there.

I heard him snort and he punched the door, not too hard, but like he was frustrated. He turned to leave and I spoke before he reached the front door. "Want a drink?"

He stopped, but didn't turn. "You're sitting in the dark?"

"Some secret agent. I could have shot you."

He turned at that, leather jacket creaking. "Trusted environments are the most dangerous, they tell us."

Trusted. "Does that mean you trust me again?" I could see the silhouette of his nod against the window in the front door. "Sit down. Have a drink. Make yourself at home."

He sat down, barely on the edge of the chair. I pointed at the empty spot next to me on the battered Victorian. "Take your coat off and stay a while." I poured him a drink while he stood to shed the leather, dropping it on the chair before sitting next to me on the love seat, a careful inch between us. He looked resigned as I handed him a drink. I sat back and stretched out my legs, and after a few minutes he leaned back next to me, not letting our shoulders touch.

"Blue," I said, getting the big thing out of the way. "Kidnapping?"

"Could be. Parents are pushing the FBI that way. Makes my life a bit more complicated. Any chance she's somewhere else?"

"How would I know? Why else would she get in a car with Georgia plates?"

"Lots of students here with cars from lots of places."

"Look. I don't know. You need to tell me what you learn, okay. I feel responsible."

Brian nodded, like he didn't have to ask why. "You share with me, and we got a deal."

"Okay."

We drank in silence for a long while after that, and in some ways it wasn't any different from the last five nights of me on my knees. I'd had a lot of time to think during those hours, but after today, things were different. It was hard to put my finger on it.

He broke the silence. "I talked to Janine yesterday."

The girlfriend back home. That was unexpected. "You call her?"

"Last Wednesday night," he said, and let it hang for a moment in the air. The day Ricky was killed. "I forgot she was on a mission trip with the youth group. I was supposed to be on it, too."

I groaned internally, not liking the reminder of his other, churchgoing life, but took a sip without answering.

Eventually he said, "I called to tell her I'd do whatever she thought I should, see whatever counselor she wanted, if she would marry me." I downed the rest of what was in my glass, and started to stand. I had to get away from this. Whatever he was going to tell me, he could say it from across the room, with the lights on, and then get the hell out. He put a hand on my arm before I made it past leaning forward. "Wait."

"What?" I wanted to laugh. Here I was ready to, I don't know, commit? And he was telling me he was going off to get turned straight.

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Before you waited for me."

My hands shook with released tension as I poured more whiskey into my glass, and tilted the bottle toward Brian. He held out his glass, and I poured and then sat with my elbows on my knees, hoping he meant what I thought he meant. I took another sip and said into the glass. "I didn't jack off, either."

"I believe you."

We sat quiet, drinking for a few more minutes before I said, "So what did you talk with Janine about?"

"I told her she'd find the key to her apartment in the mail and asked her to drop mine off or mail it."

"So good-bye, then?"

"Yeah."

He seemed to be waiting for something from me, so I said, "I turned down Janet this afternoon."

"Who's Janet?"

"The friend that I'd told that Ricky was married. Turns out she was an ex-girlfriend, or I was an ex-boyfriend, or something like that. News to me. I thought it was, I don't know, friendly sex. She thought she'd been patient with me straying." I tapped the glass with my fingernail, remembering how she had laughed at the idea I was being loyal to someone. "We don't have to worry about her spreading it around. She won't say anything."

"Good." There was another long silence before Brian asked, "Why'd you turn her down?"

I thought back. She was tempting, and we'd even got so far as the first few kisses, and her breast round and soft in my hand, even through her shirt, but she tasted like herb tea and smelled wrong. She was too smooth, too soft, and too small. I told her I couldn't stay, and she asked why.

"I told her I was seeing someone." I glanced over my shoulder, "Although it's kind of dark right now, and you haven't been letting me look up much the last five nights." Brian laughed as much as the joke was worth. "What did you tell Janine?"

"Nothing," he said. I snorted. "What?" Brian said. "It's none of her business."

"So I'm the dirty little secret that stays in the closet?" I felt like picking a fight with him all of a sudden. I could have walked right back into a sweet set-up with Janet, but I didn't. He could have come clean with Janine, but he didn't. I was seeing a disconnect here.

Brian didn't come back at me, though. He balanced his glass on his leg and leaned his head back, his other hand on my back.

"Lars, people like me don't get to stay federal agents if they're out of the closet." 

He sounded somewhere between resigned and hopeful, but I wasn't ready to let him off the hook. "What do you mean people like you?"

"Men who do men. They don't keep this kind of job if they're open about it."

"So, you're gay. Queer. Faggot. Homosexual." 

I felt his hand tighten on my shirt. "Yeah, and what are you?"

I leaned back, trapping his arm. I tapped my glass against his in a mock toast and said, "I'm flexible," before downing it like a shot.

Brian sounded annoyed as he pulled his hand out. "Meaning you'll fuck anything."

"Anything pretty," I corrected. "That's what I used to think." I put down my glass.

"And now what?"

I turned, and before he could react I straddled this thighs, holding the edges of ornate woodwork on either side of his head. "Turns out I'm flexible about that, too."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm flexible enough to adapt to not fucking anything pretty, and trust me, Janet is very pretty." 

He looked up at me, eyes widening in realization. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"You're the one with the job to lose. I'm willing to be a secret, just not a dirty one." I looked at him. "I like pain sometimes, and sometimes I like you order me around, but I do not do humiliation. I'm willing to protect you, but if you're ashamed of me, we're done."

I leaned back as Brian downed his drink and put the glass on the floor. He put his hands on my flanks, but didn't look up. "You are crazy smart, crazy, so amazingly hot, and I can't believe you want me." Then he looked up. "Ashamed of you?"

"I'm a freak," I said. "I'm a guy. What would your fellow agents think if they saw you now?"

"Right now, I don't care," he breathed. He took my head in his hands and kissed me, opening his mouth so that I had to open mine, sliding his tongue across mine and playing with the barbell. That was just the opening salvo. When he was sure I'd keep kissing him, he let go of my head and slid his hands down my sides, up under my shirt. He didn't go for the nipple ring. His touch wasn't erotic at all. His hands were firm on my skin, until he finally broke off with a growl, sliding his arms all the way around me and burying his face in my chest.

I wrapped my arms over his shoulders, and stroked his brush cut with one hand. I said, "So we're doing this, huh?" He nodded against me. "Not just a thing?" He shook his head. "Cool," I said, and rubbed my cheek against his hair. We were wrapped tight around each other, but I'd never felt so open in my life.

I didn't want to break the moment, but there was something he needed to know. "Angie figured us out."

He tensed, arms tightening around me for a moment before he started to push away. "So I'm done, anyway. Time to look for a job in the private sector." 

"No," I said, pulling him back and rubbing his head again. "She won't out you. You don't have to worry, but you needed to know that she knows, and that she figured it out on her own. We've got to be more careful." He nodded once and I got up and pulled him to his feet. He swayed slightly, but that was to be expected. I'd poured with a heavy hand. 

"Listen," I said, putting both my hands on his shoulders, "remember those excuses I gave you, about blow jobs being blow jobs and all that?" He nodded, not looking at me. "If it comes down to it, you use them if you have to." He shook his head once. "If you have to," I repeated. "Come on." 

We went to the bedroom, and I stripped him in the dark. He lay on the bed while I shucked my own clothes, and then I lay beside him. We faced each other, touching, breathing together. "This isn't going to be easy," he said.

"Easy is boring." I reached down, found him hard, and he pushed into my hand. I liked the feel of him and took my time, tracing my fingers to memorize his contours and lines.

He laughed. "I hate to break it to you, but that part's always going to be easy."

I pushed forward, letting him feel that I was just as hard. "I don't have a problem with that."

He reached down and took me in hand, and we stroked each other and kissed, lazy and enjoying the moment. After a few minutes he broke off. "Are you going to have a problem with my job?"

My hand stopped moving. "The nature of your work, or the need for the closet?"

"Both."

"Yes, to both, but that's mine to deal with. It's part of the package." I kissed his forehead. "What about me? What are you going to have a hard time with?"

"Not feeling stupid around you. And wondering what the hell you'll do next."

I didn't have anything to say to that, not directly, so I slid down the futon and said to his cock, "Want to help me turn off his brain?" I took it in my mouth and listened to him gasp.

"Jesus, Lars."

He didn't say much more, although he made a lot of noise. Eventually, he returned the favor, and I was on a hair trigger, aching for him after those five nights of unanswered want. In the end we kissed and I could taste myself in his mouth, and knew he was doing the same.

I remembered that first night, when he was just some random trick, telling me he wanted to taste it, tasting his own come and whiskey in my mouth, like kissing was a new thing.

It had been new, I realized, and for some reason it made me want to tease him. I rolled him onto his back and leaned down. "What were you thinking the first time you came over here?"

He looked up at me, eyebrows together. "What?"

"Seriously, you'd never done anything like that, had you?" I was trying not to smile.

His face relaxed a fraction. "No."

"So why me? And why did you come back?" I couldn't help it. I shaded over to smug, and he heard it.

"I am not feeding your ego. Go to sleep, Lars."

"It's barely eleven."

"I already told you. Hot, smart, and, Jesus, you're crazy."

I straddled him. "But you didn't know all that, then." 

"Sure I did. You'd been profiled, remember?" Brian shoved me off and sat up. "Are you a twelve year old girl all of a sudden?"

I lay on my back and let myself laugh, and he scowled at me. I reached up to touch his face, and shook my head. "I had no idea when I handed you my card that this would happen."

"That's a relief," he said. "You seem to know everything else."

"No," I said, sliding my hand down and across his shoulder to stroke his back. "I miss a lot." I was thinking some of Janet, but mostly of Blue, and how stupid I was not to predict that Turner would try to get his hands on her.

Brian must have heard something in my voice, because he turned and lay down again, head propped on an elbow. He didn't say anything, just spent time looking at me before he reached out to put his hand in the middle of my chest. I stretched under him, trying to put everything else out of my mind. He rubbed down my body, over the carp tattoo, back up the other leg, ending with his palm resting on my hip bone. I pulled him on top of me, and we kissed until we started to get hard again.

He reached over to the nightstand, sliding off me as he pulled the lube out of the drawer, and handed it to me. He stayed on his stomach, the message clear as he spread his thighs. I took my time, remembering that he'd only done this once before. It was long and slow, but urgency returned at last. 

"Brian," I said, my voice ragged in my own ears.

"Come on," he said, pushing back against me.

"You?" I asked.

"Yeah."

Eventually, we stumbled to the bathroom for the necessities, pulled off the futon cover, and fell into bed together like it was the easiest thing in the world.


	37. Lars makes bad decisions

Plan 9, pissed off and trying not to show it to whatever idiot answered the phones at the police station. The entire morning had been an exercise in trying to contain my temper, first with the bureaucrats at the licensing board. They took my checks and application package, and let me know that it might be considered—not granted but considered—in three to six weeks, depending. And what it depended on, they couldn't say.

"I'll check the division listings," said the voice, sounding bored and long-suffering. "Please hold."

I spent five minutes listening to repeated public safety messages before I heard a gruff, "Riley here."

"It's Lars Dahl," I said.

"Mister Dahl," he said, dragging it out. "What can I do for you?"

"I put in my applications for the licenses for Plan 9 today."

"And where did you get the money for that, I wonder?"

The scorn in his voice was annoying, if familiar. I didn't dignify the question with an answer. "The point is, the forms are in and the fees are paid, and now they tell me it'll be weeks before I even know whether they'll even issue the licenses."

"So?"

"Can I remind you that a young woman has been kidnapped, and re-opening the space was a condition of her release? I was told the permits would be expedited."

"Yes, well, the FBI seems to have taken over because of the added kidnapping case, and I guess that's appropriate, but it's nothing to do with me or the city any more." He sounded happy to be screwing me over. I hung up.

I wanted to call Angie, but I didn't have her number. I called Brian instead. He answered on the second ring. "Hey, there."

Damn caller ID, I thought. Brian had been gone in the morning, but I expected that. I didn't expect, or want, the bedroom voice right now. "Agent Hoechst," I said, "I have a situation."

He snapped into professional mode. "What's the problem?"

I explained about the permit delays, and Detective Riley washing his hands of any need to help. Brian was silent for several moments, and when he said he'd look into it, he sounded dangerous. "Wait," I said. "Why don't you let me call Angie? I don't have a number for her."

"I can handle it."

"I think his problem is with the FBI agents that came later. He seemed all right with you and Angie. Maybe you two can be the good cops to the new agents bad cops."

"Don't tell me my job." The dangerous tone was aimed at me this time.

"Okay." Fuck, if I didn't sound placating. "I'm just worried about Blue."

"I'll look into it," Brian said.

"Can I at least have a number for Angie?"

"Sure." He gave me the number and I wrote it down. "Wait until I get back to you on this."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I asked. "I can't just sit here."

"Work on your grad school stuff," he said, and then he hung up.

I programmed Angie's number into the cell, but called her on Plan 9's phone. I got her voice mail after five rings, and I wondered if that meant Brian was already talking to her. I hung up without leaving a message, and rubbed my eyes. How could I think about grad school with this stuff going on? On the other hand, if I didn't let Professor Robinson know I was still here, she'd probably assume I flaked again. I called her office.

"Political Science department." 

"How are you, Francine? It's Lars Dahl."

"Hello, Lars. I'm as well as can be expected. What can I do for you?"

"Is Deanna in?"

"Not at the moment, although I'm sure she'll be thrilled you surfaced again," Francine said, her tone flat, which probably meant sarcasm. "Can I have her call you?"

"Sure." I left three numbers: home, Plan 9, and my cell phone. I was relieved at the delay, since I wasn't sure what to tell Deanna. I spent the next half hour canceling bands that had been booked for the next two weeks. Two sets of them were Turner's, and they were grumpy. Within another half hour, the phone rang again.

I answered, and was unsurprised at the bass voice that greeted me. "Mr. Dahl. How are you this fine day?"

I grabbed my cell phone and called Brian, holding it far enough away from the landline that Turner wouldn't hear him answer.

"To be honest, I'm frustrated and a little pissed off." I could see from the cell phone's screen that Brian had answered. I brought the phone up so he could hear what I said. "You see, Mr. Turner, the city is not so cooperative. They won't even tell me if they'll give me the licenses for another three or four weeks."

"That's too bad, since I'd be much obliged if you could open again a week from Friday."

I flipped the cell phone around so that the mouthpiece was at the earpiece for Plan 9's phone. "There's nothing I can do about it. It's up to the city, and they don't like this place. I made a good faith attempt, and I'll re-open the day they let me."

"Hmm. Perhaps you should find a new partner that's more to their liking?"

That surprised me, and since I was already pissed off, it irritated me, too. "What's wrong with me?"

"Miss Cunningham tells me your appearance is a bit remarkable," he said, a trace of amusement in his tone. It took me several moments before I realized that he meant Blue. Bethany Cunningham. 

"You have Blue."

"She accepted an offer of employment."

"That's not what the feds think. Or her parents."

"Miss Cunningham is nineteen. I do not think her parents have a say in the matter."

"Send her back." 

"I'm not sure Miss Cunningham is interested in leaving."

"What?!" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Did you think my company would be so unpleasant?"

"What? No. I don't know. What am I supposed to think, because, you know, kidnapping?"

"What an unpleasant word, and slanderous, too."

"What would you call it?"

"I extended an invitation, which she accepted. That is what she'd tell anyone who asked." He sounded very sure.

My mind snapped around the implication. This was the guy selling Intensity. Who knew what other drugs he had in the pipeline? "Can I talk to her?"

He gave the last answer I expected. "Certainly. She's right here."

There was a noise and shuffle, and then I heard, "Hello?"

I tried to keep my voice steady. "Blue? It's Lars."

"I'm not Blue anymore," she said, and giggled. I almost dropped the cell phone. I'd never heard Blue giggle. She had a low, almost evil laugh, and she rarely used it.

I went straight to the point. "Has he given you any drugs?"

"That's a nosy question. Mind your manners." She sounded perky. This was weird.

"Blue—"

"Not Blue any more, please. I told you. It's Bette, now."

Bette? Oh, right, short for Bethany. "Okay, Bette." The name felt strange to say, but I tried to keep my tone level. Hearing Blue sound so unlike herself was making me even angrier at Turner, and I wouldn't learn anything from her by acting pissed off. "How are you? What are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I'm working with Mr. Turner on some of his projects."

"What kind of projects?" 

Blue giggled again. It was unnerving. "Special ones."

"Do you want to come home?"

"Oh, no. I'm happier here with Mr. Turner."

I wanted to shout at her that she couldn't be serious, but I pushed that down with the rest of the anger. "Let me talk to him again."

"You should say please."

My chest was a hard, tight knot as I said, "Please, let me talk to him again."

"Sure. Just a moment, please." She sounded like a TV secretary, a caricature of the blond and brainless.

"Mr. Dahl," came Turner's voice.

"What the hell have you done to her?" I yelled, unable to contain it any more.

"Now, Mr. Dahl, nothing was ever solved by shouting." 

The fucker was laughing at me, which only made me more angry. He sounded like he thought he held all the cards. I felt like I had nothing to lose. I tightened my grip on the cell phone, wondering what Brian made of this. "What have you done to her, and what the fuck do you want?"

"I have what I want. Even if I lose the distribution node at Plan 9, Mistress Bette is quite a fair trade."

I almost broke the cell phone in my grip. "She's not something to be traded. What have you done to her?"

"I've shown her an alternative to her alternative life style. You should try it. Someone who could write the book you wrote could aspire to higher goals than a sordid little club in a minor city. You could be traveling the country giving seminars. I'd be happy to book your tours. And help with your wardrobe."

He was still laughing at me. I had no idea what was motivating him now. It made sense when it was a drug and money distribution network, but try as I might, I could come up with only one reason for what he was doing now. 

I had to see for myself, and I had to get her out of there, if I could. "Why don't I come down to Atlanta?" I said. "I have nothing to do while I wait for the city do decide whether to give me the permits to reopen." 

"I thought you were going back to finish your graduate degree."

"Where the hell did you hear that?"

"Mistress Bette and I have had some invaluable conversations."

I'll bet you have. Everything I'd said to her that night she was tripping? Turner had probably heard it. "They haven't decided whether to re-admit me," I said. "It's a good time to travel, and if I can satisfy myself that Blue is happy, we work out a business arrangement."

"Hmm," Turner rumbled, as if considering. "All right." 

This was too easy. I wondered what he was thinking. "Is the address on the paperwork for the contracts the right one?"

"Indeed it is. When should I expect you?"

"It's a six and a half hour drive, and it'll take me an hour to get out of town. I can be there by about seven."

"All right. I needn't remind you, Mr. Dahl, that I expect you to come alone?"

"You needn't remind me," I said. I hadn't planned on anything else, but I realized I was still holding the cell phone. I pulled it away, and the screen was dark. At some point Brian had hung up, but I didn't know when. He wouldn't want me to do this. None of the feds would let me go if they knew, except maybe Angie. "See you this evening." I hung up the phone, stared at it for a long moment, then called Angie. This time she answered.

"In our new spirit of cooperation, you should be the first to know. The only one to know. I'm going to Atlanta," I said.

I don't think she heard me. She said, "Brian told me the city backed out of their deal. I think they're seeing this as an opportunity to get rid of Plan 9."

"Yeah, I figured that out. Turner doesn't really care any more, and I talked to Blue. She says she wants to stay."

"What?"

"So I'm going to Atlanta," I said. "To see her, to see if I can get her home."

"What? What about getting Turner?" Angie said. "This is just like you trying to change the story on Ricky killing that stupid hippie, isn't it? You're just going to go off and do whatever the hell you want."

"Hey, I told you, didn't I? Are you still on the case?" I asked.

"No, and the FBI doesn't seem to care if you cooperate. They want nothing to do with the DEA. They're treating this as a straight kidnapping, now, but they agents they sent went down to Trey's house and questioned him again in front of his parents."

A set of equations, once written on my arm, dissolved. All bets, all predictions, were off. "Are they fucking insane? Have they listened to you at all? Trey will tell Turner."

"He can't. They took him into protective custody, with his parents' approval. They're being cautious."

"Shit." Too cautious, I thought. Trey dropping off the map could spook Turner, too. 

"No kidding," she said. "Does Brian know you're going down there?"

I thought for a minute. I had no idea when the cell phone connection had been lost, whether he'd hung up, or what. "I don't know. If he doesn't know, I'm not going to tell him. He won't want me to go."

"He won't want you to go alone," Angie corrected. I didn't say anything, and she said, "I had breakfast with him this morning. I think he needed someone to talk to." I sighed loud enough for her to hear it. I did not want to be having this conversation. She said, "Do you have any idea how much you've flipped his head around?"

The question surprised me. "He's not the only one that got flipped here. I think I promised him monogamy last night."

"You'd better keep that promise. He's betting everything he has on you."

"On me helping him stay in the closet." Until I spat it out like that, I didn't realize just how much of a problem it was going to be. It had been an easy thing to promise last night. It was going to be harder to do.

"Lars," Angie started.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the reasons. I'm going to leave here and grab some things, then head south."

"Don't do this, Lars, and if you do, I'm going with you."

"I have to. He's done something to Blue. Your damn agencies are moving too slow, Turner said to come alone. I don't even know why he said I could come."

"All the more reason for me to be in Atlanta, too."

"I'm going alone. Maybe this is the way to get him to trust me."

"So, I'll drive my own car," she said.

"Angie, don't."

"Lars, don't tell me what to do."

"Were you this much of a pain in Ricky's ass?"

There was a pause on her end, and then she said, "Yes. Yes, I was. I think it was why he liked me."

There was nothing I could say to that, so I used my last, weak piece of ammunition. "Don't you have to be back at work on Friday?"

"I asked for an extension of my leave. Get used to it, Lars. I'm going to Atlanta with you. If we can't get Turner for kidnapping Blue, maybe you'll learn enough that we can get him on something else, but we have to get him." Angie suddenly sounded like she was about to break.

I couldn't believe I'd forgotten she had more reason to hate him than I did. "We will," I said, suddenly feeling quiet. I wanted Turner for Ricky more than for Blue, but Blue was alive, and I could do something about that.

"What about Brian?" she asked.

I didn't want to think about that. He was going to hate me doing this. "I'll leave him a note."

"Do you know where we're going?" 

I gave her the address. "I'll call you when I hit the road."

I closed up Plan 9 and drove home. Brian was waiting for me, leaning on his motorcycle. Crap. 

"Hey," he said, and followed me in.

"So, how much did you hear," I asked.

"I heard Turner say that Blue was a fair trade for losing Plan 9 as a distribution point, then you hung up on me. What happened?"

"I didn't mean to," I said. He didn't know I was going to Atlanta. That was good. "He doesn't care about Plan 9. He's not sending Blue home, and she says she doesn't want to come."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much." I couldn't look at him as I lied. When he didn't say anything, I glanced up. He looked grim. "What's up?"

He couldn't look at me. "I got a call from the home office. I've been called back. With Plan 9 closed, the case isn't here."

"So where is it?" I asked.

"Atlanta." He didn't sound happy. "Instead of sending me to another of the clubs in the network, they're sending me to Turner's office of record. Who knows if he's really there?"

"When do you have to be there?" I asked, but I was really wondering how much time I had before he'd show up.

Brian took off his jacket. "I have to head back up to Virginia this afternoon. I'm on the bike, so it's safer to get home before dark. If I leave by two, I'll be okay.

"And Atlanta?" I asked, not sure what I wanted the answer to be.

"I don't know if they'll send me down before the weekend, or probably wait until Monday." That just confirmed my decision. They were going to be too slow, and I had to get Blue out of there. Brian was still talking. "Some of it has to do with the FBI. I think I had a good relationship going with Special Agent Grissom, but the new guys they sent to cover the kidnapping—" His face went dark. Whatever he'd tried to do there hadn't gone well. He sat on a chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. "And I don't know what I'm walking into in Atlanta. State law enforcement thinks they have a case on him for running a porn studio."

"Porn?" I tried not to give anything away.

"Yeah. Turner has studios he uses to film videos for the bigger bands, but rumor has it they're used at night, too."

"Blue?" I said. I had to get her out of there.

"Maybe. It fits the picture of a well rounded piece of shit, doesn't it?" I'd never seen Brian so grim. "Drug trafficking, extortion, loan sharking, kidnapping. What's a little porn in the mix?" I didn't say anything. This was a side of Brian I hadn't seen much. He snorted and looked at the floor. "The Georgia folks want the porn arrest, we want the drug arrest, and god knows what the hell the FBI thinks it's doing. Even the local DEA agents won't like me coming in from Washington." He emphasized the word, more sarcastic than I'd ever heard him, then added, "Even though it's really Virginia."

"Wow," I said, sounding stupid in my own ears.

He stood up again and walked over to me, sliding his hands around my waist, dropping the bitter edge out of his expression and his voice. "Yeah, me, too. I thought we'd have more time." I put my arms around him and kissed him on the head. He leaned up to kiss my neck, following his lips with teeth and tongue. "One for the road?"

I didn't have time, but I couldn't say no. I led him to the bedroom and stripped off his T-shirt, running my hands through the hair on his chest, fingering his nipples. He leaned back and let me, tracing his hands down my arms, my side, and up under my shirt to twist the nipple ring. We said nothing, letting the increased sound of our breathing and the reactions of our bodies do the talking. 

I reached for his belt, button, and fly, and then we were kissing, hot and wet as we stroked each other. It would be quick this way, but I wanted more, even if I didn't have the time. "Lube," I said against his mouth.

He nodded, licking and biting my lip. "I want you in me."

"My turn. If you're going to be gone, I want to feel you for at least a couple of days."

"You're giving me a taste for it," he said. "Besides, I think you're several up on me. Got to balance the scales."

I couldn't argue with the logic, so I said, "I want to see your face."

He stepped back and sat to pull off his boots, and jeans as well, since they were already half way down his thighs. I sat next to him, getting rid of my own clothes. Brian pushed me onto my back, and I slid myself up the futon to get my head on the pillow and reach for the lube and latex. He took the bottle out of my hand and took care of himself in just the time it took me to put on a condom, straddling me with no more preparation. I could tell he wasn't ready, felt him quiver as he leaned down to kiss me, wincing slightly.

"You okay?" I asked. He wasn't hard any more. "You're not used to this."

"Just give me a second," he said, kissing me again, as if for reassurance, but whether for him, or for me, I wasn't sure. "Lars," he said after a minute, his forehead resting on mine.

"What?" I wasn't sure what to expect.

"You."

I should have expected it. I should have expected the heat in my chest that had nothing to do with his palms over my nipples. It hit me like a brickbat anyway. "Yeah," I said when I could talk. "You, too."

It cut something loose in him, and things were hard and fast after that. It was nothing like the first time he'd ridden me, treating me like a sex toy. This time he was there, eyes open, looking into mine. He was so damn beautiful, and it was so hot to watch him give over to sensation and need. When it was over, he pulled himself together and fell over next to me, and laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"I get to have this," he said, and kissed me on the shoulder.

I shook my head. "And he says I'm the crazy one."

"Quick shower?" he asked, dragging a finger through the mess on my stomach.

"Sure." This time I washed him, too, trying to memorize his muscles, the width of his feet, the breadth of his neck. We didn't talk much as we dried and dressed, and I kissed him goodbye at the door with promises to be in touch. As I watched him take off on the bike, I found myself thinking I should have told him where I was going, but he'd want to go with me, to bring in the local agents, maybe even to protect me. I couldn't let him do that. Not only would it spook Turner, it would increase the chances of Brian and I giving ourselves away. I turned back to the bedroom, threw a couple of changes of clothes into a backpack I hadn't used since dropping out of grad school, and headed south to Atlanta. I had half an hour to make up on the drive.


	38. "It's taking some twists and turns."

I stopped for food about two hours out of Atlanta. When my cell phone rang, I wiped the grease from the French fries off my fingers and grabbed for it, swerving into the rumble strip announcing the break down lane. I pulled back onto the highway as I answered the phone.

"Lars? Deanna Robinson."

Shit. "Oh. Hi, Dee."

"How's your project coming?"

"It's taking some twists and turns." It was all I could come up with to say.

"How are you?"

"Fine," I said, trying to make it sound real.

"Really? With all that's happened, you're just fine?" Deanna sighed her I am smarter than you, so don't try to fake me out sigh. "I thought you'd call after what happened at Plan 9."

"How'd you hear about it?"

"I read the newspaper. I was surprised they didn't have any quotes from you, and then I wondered if you were the dead suspect. Francine says I should be getting used to wondering if you're dead."

"Great," I said. "Remind me to send her chocolate covered espresso beans. They'll be good for her evil heart."

"Very funny. I'll be sure to tell her. So," Dee said, "I'm sorry. I don't know how close you and your business partner were, but it must be awful."

"In a word, it sucks," I said.

"Is it related to what you told me in my office last week?"

"Yeah."

"So, how does this play into your model?"

I laughed. It was just the right amount of tactless absurdity. "The models are shot to hell for several reasons. No pun intended."

"So," she said.

"So, what?"

"The plan is to allow you back in if you take two seminar courses and re-take your qualifiers." I started to object, but she interrupted. "You've been out for four years, you have to admit you'd be skeptical for someone else to just walk in after that much time."

I didn't want to argue that there were people who finished their degrees six years after passing the qualifying exams, so I said, "Okay."

"You sound a little distracted."

"I am. Look, I'm sorry, but I'm on the road." I did not want to talk with Dee, or think about school.

"If you want to start winter quarter, let me know soon," Dee said. "I've got some ideas for tuition money for you."

"Thanks."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out of town for a few days."

"You're coming back, right? Because I'm not wasting time on funding for you if you're going to disappear again."

"I have every intention of showing up for classes in January," I said.

"Good." She didn't immediately end the conversation, so I knew there was something else. 

"Yes?"

"I've heard a few things," she said.

"Like what?"

"You've been writing on your arm again, and I heard you were zoned out after a show, like you were on something." I didn't answer. "My daughter was in town a couple of weeks ago, and was at Plan 9 almost every night you were open. What she told me wasn't exactly comforting. Are you really ready for this?"

It was yet another variation on the same damn question everyone had been asking me before Ricky was killed. I was still tired of it. "If you don't think I can do it, don't fucking admit me. I'll apply other places."

"Lars, it's just—"

I cut her off. "You don't want me to embarrass you by flaking out again."

She had the grace to sound uncomfortable when she answered. "There is that, and the fact that your admittedly brilliant dissertation plan was high risk, high payoff, and it's more than a little uncertain at this point. And you may not be ready to come back to an academic environment. I mean, there are expected social standards."

This time she trailed off, and I heard all the implications about my appearance, my job, my attitude. After the day I'd been having, I had no patience for it. "Dee, I'm going to hang up before I tell you to what to do with your standards. I've had people all week telling me I didn't suit their fucking preconceived notions. I don't need it from you, either."

"Lars, I'm sorry." She sounded like she almost meant it. "What's going on?"

"They're probably not going to let me reopen Plan 9."

"Is that really a bad thing? I mean, it would be a distraction from your research."

I hung up on her and gunned the engine, since I couldn't punch a wall, getting my car up to almost ninety before backing off. I couldn't afford to blow the engine, or to get pulled over. I took a deep breath. I had just under two more hours of driving before I hit the outskirts of Atlanta, and I had to be calm and in control. Eventually, I needed to take a leak and fill the tank, so I pulled off and found a gas station. When I got back into the car, my phone was beeping. I'd missed a call from Brian, so I called him back.

"Hey there," he said. It was that bedroom voice again, and I realized that there was at least one person who wasn't telling me I needed to be something different.

"Hi. You home?"

"No, dumbass, I'm still on the bike. Of course I'm home." His voice dropped. "That was good this afternoon."

"Yeah." Crap. If he wanted to try phone sex again, I had to derail him. I couldn't pull it off while driving, and he'd know if I was faking it. "I talked to my thesis advisor," I said. I didn't really want to talk about it, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"Oh?" He sounded more normal.

"They'll let me back into grad school for next quarter on a trial basis."

"That's good, right?" He sounded happy for me.

It was working as a distraction, so I told him the situation. While he gave me encouraging words, I came up with another conversational topic. I asked, "So, was Janine's key there?" He didn't answer for a long moment, and I thought we might have lost the connection. "You still there?"

"Yeah. And yeah, she left her key. And a letter." 

Now he was the one who sounded like he didn't want to talk, but he wouldn't have said anything about the letter if he didn't actually want to tell me about it. When he didn't start in on his own, I asked, "What did she say?"

"All the ways I'm going to Hell, and how she'd be sinning if she didn't tell me."

I decided to hate the woman. "Quoted Leviticus 18:22, did she?"

"Sodom and Gomorrah, too."

"There are alternative translations to that verse, as with the Sodom story. I mean, come on, Lot offered his daughters to the crowd. That's not what I would call righteous." If I couldn't handle phone sex while driving, maybe I could work on the religious crisis Janine had shoved on him. Had to come sooner or later. "You have a few options."

He sounded tired. "What kind of options?"

"Well, you can keep believing in all the stuff they fed you and be miserable, or you can read different translations of the bible, read comments on the mistranslations, and think for yourself."

"That's two. You said a few."

"Or you can decide you've been conditioned like Pavlov's dog to believe certain things, then get rid of the entire load of bullshit, and think for yourself."

I could hear him snort, not really amused. "You're big on that thinking for yourself thing."

"You're just figuring this out?" I asked. He laughed. "So, talk to me," I said.

"It's not easy."

"So I'll do it for you. Ever since you were a kid you were told that what you felt was abomination, even before you were old enough to know what the feeling meant." It wasn't hard to remember back. "And when you did know, and you tried to feel the things they said you should feel about girls, you felt fake. When you liked another guy, you had to pull it back, push it down, avoid the guy. Were you the first to make the faggot jokes? Beat up the queerbait?"

"Not the first," he said, but his voice was quiet.

"Yeah, well it was easier for me because I crushed on girls and guys pretty much the same, but I learned not to talk about the guys after the first time I got beat up. Didn't matter. I got stuck with the queerbait name. You would have kicked my ass in high school," I said, then added, "after church, while my girlfriend screamed at you and got the youth pastor to break it up."

That got the laugh I was looking for to break the tension. I said, "Seriously, just go read Leviticus. Do you eat shrimp? Sacrifice bulls?"

"Yes. No. What are you getting at?"

"Christians pick and choose from the Old Testament. I prefer the whole 'new covenant' idea myself. Toss that vengeful Jehovah crap, and read what Jesus said."

"Pretty funny coming from a man who put Satanic symbols under his skin. Do you believe in God?" Brian asked.

I took a minute to answer. I gave him the best answer I could. "I don't know, man. I got all the same indoctrination you did, but how do you put together the whole Jesus loves me thing with the book telling you you're an abomination?"

"That night," Brian started, hesitated, then went on, "when you were tripping." 

He didn't finish, but I knew he was changing the subject. "Too rough for you?"

"Yeah," he said, sounding relieved that I got it.

I couldn't believe he was still carrying around guilt. "You are not an abomination. You took care of me," I said. "You did nothing I didn't want." Brian made a non-committal noise. "Look, I don't really care if the subdermal is gone. I'm over all that occult stuff."

"That's not the part that bothers me. Not so much."

Was it the way he'd fucked me like a dog, or the way he'd tied me up that bothered him? Fuck, but I'd liked those parts. "I'm sorry if I pushed you farther than you wanted to go."

"Thanks." Something in his voice said he needed the apology.

We were quiet for a minute, and I could see my exit coming up in a few miles. "Hey, you," I said.

"Hey, you." There was still something not right in his tone, but I wasn't going to solve it here, and he didn't seem like he wanted to talk about it any more. Right now, neither did I. He said, "Killed the phone sex vibe, huh?"

"Sorry about that," I lied. "Rain check?"

"Next time you jack off, think about me, and you can tell me about it later."

"In detail," I promised. "Sounds like a plan." I shifted lanes toward the exit. "Talk to you later?"

"Yeah. I'll call you when they let me know when I'm heading to Georgia."

"Okay." I thumbed the off button before I said something stupid. Besides, I was going to have to navigate surface roads to find Turner's offices, and I always got lost in Atlanta.

It was just after seven thirty when I found the place. There was a small plaque with the name Turner Enterprises on one of the doors of an office and warehouse complex in an industrial center. The whole thing seemed low key. I called Angie. "I'm here."

"Okay," she said. "I'm at the hotel just off the exit. What's the plan?"

"If you don't hear from me by tomorrow night, something's not right."

"That's not a lot to go on."

"All I got," I said, rubbing my eyes with my other hand. I was wiped out after the day and the drive. "I won't know what I'm up against until I get in there."

"Tomorrow morning," she said, "not tomorrow night. Good luck, and don't do anything stupid."

"You don't do anything stupid, either, okay? He thinks I'm alone."

"You are. That's why I'm worried," Angie said. 

"Hey, I've got you, right? I'll call you when I can, okay?"

"Okay."

The lights were on in the window of the office, so I got out of the car, tried the door and found it locked. There was a button, so I pushed it, glancing around. There was a security camera aimed at me, and I bared my teeth at it in a fake smile. "Lars Dahl for Mr. Turner," I said, in case there was microphone as well.

The door made a mechanical sound, and I heard the lock clunk. I pushed my way in to find a reception area with a desk. Standing behind the desk was a woman in a dress, her hair pulled into a bun, pretty, if a bit older, and looking at me. She didn't look like the type to be used to dealing punk bands, or porn stars, if Turner really was making dirty movies. "Mr. Dahl, did you say? Mr. Turner's been expecting you."

"I misjudged the traffic," I said.

"I'll let him know you're here."

It wasn't until she left that I realized there was no trace of annoyance. A standard nine to five receptionist would probably be unhappy at having to still be at work. She came back a short moment later. "Mr. Turner is occupied at the moment, but if you'll have a seat, he'll buzz me when he's ready for you. Can I get you something? Water, coffee or soda?"

 _Caffeine? Oh yes._ "Coffee please, with just milk," I said. I stood, looking down on a chair that was neither new nor old, but at least three steps above cheap office. After six hours in the car, I didn't want to sit. The room was bright, and there were posters of some of the bigger bands Turner managed framed on the walls. I looked at the magazines on the table, and they were the standard musician assortment of guitar, bass, keyboard and professional audio publications, with a few metro Atlanta newspapers thrown in. The woman came back with coffee in a white porcelain mug like you'd get at a diner, and I took it from her. "Thanks." I sipped it. It was surprisingly good. I wandered around the reception area, looking at the posters and sipping coffee.

I tried to rehearse what I was going to say, but until I saw Blue, I wouldn't know what to think. And what could I offer Turner to give her up? I wanted a pen to work out the shifting patterns, to try to make sense of what would happen with Brian and the DEA agents in Atlanta, Angie, and the FBI agents back home. I wondered what the hell Turner wanted if he didn't care about Plan 9 any more.

The mug was long empty when the phone buzzed on the secretary's desk. "Mr. Turner will see you now." I snuck a look at the clock, and it was after eight. She led me down a corridor lined with band posters, CD covers, and T-shirts tacked to the wall. Turner's door was open, and the receptionist stepped aside to let me enter on my own. Another woman was sitting on the couch in Turner's office, , young and conventionally pretty, with short brown hair and a conservative dress, but I didn't look closely at her. I was looking at Turner.

Shadrach Turner wanted to be Colonel Sanders, from the white suit to the bolo tie. His hair had not yet gone white, but he had a sandy mane that was on its way to the Southern pompadour. My eye was drawn behind him to a framed Sex Pistols poster on the wall, autographed by all of them, with "Fuck you, Shad," written in block letters over Johhny Rotten's scrawl, and "God save King Shad," over something that might have been Sid Vicious's signature. He stood and came out from behind the desk, hand extended. "Mr. Dahl. So glad you could join us."

Most people are shorter than me, but he was short, not much taller than Blue. I shook his hand automatically, but withdrew it quickly. This man was the reason Ricky was dead. "I'd like to see—" I caught myself before I could say Blue. "I'd like to talk with Bette. Bethany Cunningham," I added, feeling stupid for some reason.

"A man who comes straight to the point, although I'm given to understand that it may be the only straight thing about you. Of course you may talk with Miss Cunningham," he said, and stepped aside, gesturing toward the woman in the room. I looked at her, and she giggled.

"Blue?"

"I told you I wasn't blue anymore," she said, shaking her head so the brown hair swung. It was a wig, of course. Her lips seemed fuller, and I realized they were swollen. Mr. Turner had been occupied, all right. 

A very small part of me waited for the anger, waited to control the rage I should be feeling, and I could sense that it was there, but it never hit the surface. Turner came into view again. "Have a seat, Mr. Dahl. What can I do for you?"

I sat. "I came to make sure Blue was all right, and to try to take her home." 

"But I don't want to go home," she said. "I like it here."

"Did you just suck his dick?" I asked her. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Would I normally have asked that question?

Her answer was teasing, coy. "I told you on the phone this morning, you're asking nosy questions."

"You did," I said. "He's got you blowing him. Is that your special projects? Or is it the movies?" I felt edgy and out of control, but I couldn't get up from the chair. It didn't quite feel like Intensity.

She giggled again. "Tonight, you're my project."

"No," I said, one hand dropping down as if to push her away from my crotch even though she was across the room. It was getting harder to talk, and I suddenly recognized the landscape appearing in my head, the early stages of an Intensity trip. I'd drunk the Kool-Aid, disguised as coffee. Damn good coffee.

The Dead Guy stood up and laughed at me, and Live Guy shook his head. I wasn't worried. It was Intensity, and I knew I could handle it.


	39. "A measured dose by body weight"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See notes at end.

Turner looked at Blue, although Live Guy reminded me she should be called Brown now, or maybe Bare, since she'd probably shaved off her Mohawk. He said, "If you'll excuse us, my dear, I'd like to talk with Mr. Dahl for an hour or two. Would you please go to Madame X and ask her to call in the crew?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Turner." Blue rose and crossed to the door.

"And you should get yourselves ready. Stage Two." Blue looked nervous at that, and Turner said, "This is different training for you, my dear. She will teach you how to give discipline. You can do what you want with him, as long as you don't mark him permanently."

Blue looked at me, and I didn't recognize the expression on her face, a mesh of childish delight and feral anticipation. Dead Guy laughed in the back of my skull. Turner made sure I was facing the Sex Pistols poster, and sat down behind his desk again. "Mr. Dahl, you're an unexpected pleasure. In addition to your academic credentials, you're the very picture of an anti-establishment punk, and unexpectedly handsome. What shall I do with you?" I didn't say anything. "Can you sing? Play an instrument? Can I build a band around you?"

I wondered whether you could make a punk version of the manufactured boy band. The Dead Guy started doing stage moves with deadpan irony. Live Guy appeared just long enough to throw a tomato and miss.

"No," Turner said. "It is entirely unfair to jest with you like that. Handsome you may be, and intelligent you may be, but in some ways you have shown a decided lack of judgment." He didn't wait for me to answer. He knew I wasn't going to say anything. "Telling Miss Cunningham so much of your history the first time she sampled our recent product? She's relayed all of it to me, and I believe I know you better than I ought, given our slim acquaintance."

The Live Guy poked his head up and rolled his eyes. Great. The bad guy was going to bore me with a monologue. Dead Guy threw a rock, but missed.

"You have nothing and no one," Turner said, rising from his desk and reaching into a drawer to pull out a black cloth. He walked over to stand behind me, putting the cloth over my eyes as a blindfold. I heard him pull up a chair behind me. "Your family is dead, and you don't talk to any of your hick relations from Louisiana. Your mother killed herself. I wonder why? Producing you? Handsome, and smart, yes, but bent beyond human recognition. Why are you so alone, I wonder? Do you use people, treat them like toys? Miss Cunningham's description of your treatment of her sounded like you were most unkind, to say the very least. Aren't you ashamed you led her on like that? Or is that why you liked punishment from Mr. Cabot? Was it an expiation of your sins?"

His deep voice was resonant, genteel, reasonable, and he used everything I'd told Blue about my family, school, even that undergraduate affair with the Russian boy. She'd thrown in the lie we'd told her about Ricky being my Master. Turner kept talking, and he examined everything he had heard or read about me and found it wanting, including my book, which he praised with backhanded compliments. "Mistress Bette says you fancy yourself some kind of king of chaos—Lars the Great. Isn't that the heights of arrogance, to think it's entirely appropriate to insist that others be rattled out of the ruts of their lives, and that to stay in those known trails is to invite, what did you tell her? Ah, yes, the death of the soul. How dramatic. Perhaps the ruts are wagon tracks, and following others only smoothes the path on the road West, to new things, new settlements."

And then, he started again at the beginning. Something in me realized he wasn't trying to bore me with a monologue. He was programming me, and telling me how to think. After spending most of an hour saying it in different ways, telling me I was worthless, that I had nothing and no one, he was finally quiet.

Dead Guy had a mountain of ammo, courtesy of Shad Turner, and he lounged on it. A couple of times I tried to sweep together a trash creature to answer, but those things could only lie, and being a liar only made what he said more true. I had nothing and no one. I was worth nothing. Jesus must have told my mother to kill herself because she'd born a bent thing.

The Live Guy crawled out of a manhole wearing a smeared lab coat and holding nothing but a piece of chalk. He started writing equations on the black background in my skull, trying to tell me something. I tried to focus on his chalk marks as I heard the chair creak of Turner leaning back. He took off the blindfold, and I stared at the Sex Pistols poster behind his desk, the British flag held together with safety pins and clips, and Anarchy in the UK in block letters. I felt like the flag, something barely held together and just recognizable as a person. In my head the Dead Guy started tossing garbage at the equations, smearing the numbers and symbols. 

"You have nothing and no one," Turner whispered. "You bend over, ready for the paddle or the whip because you think you deserve no better. I can help you, Mr. Dahl. I can give you what you need. Sex. Drugs. Rock and Roll. Burn bright and fast."

The Dead Guy tossed a Molotov cocktail from hand to hand and grinned.

The Live Guy kept at his equations and diagrams, and I tried hard to understand the point. Who the hell gave a damn about political theory dressed in numbers? He finished the final terms and stepped back, dodging a rock and looking at me with his eyebrows raised. I looked at it, no specific set of terms meant anything to me, but suddenly I saw that the math was not the point, but the pattern of the equations against the black. He'd used the numbers and symbols to sketch Brian's face. He nodded at me before his head exploded in broken glass and flame from the Molotov cocktail. Dead Guy looked annoyed, but the Live Guy had done his work. I had someone. I had Brian. Right?

Dead Guy kept throwing garbage until the face in the equations was gone. He told me I didn't deserve Brian, and something deep in me believed him. Live Guy lay there, a corpse with a smoldering hole where the head should have been, and my mind ran on the tracks Turner had laid out.

We sat in silence for a long while, or so it seemed. I stared at the Anarchy in the UK poster, and felt the anarchy in my head. Dead Guy threw a victory party, and every self-doubt was in attendance, with bells on. Now and then Turner would reach out and stroke my neck, and I would go stiff, not wanting the touch until suddenly his fingers burned down my skin, and I leaned back for more before I caught myself and tried to pull away. He chuckled, and rose, walking to the phone on his desk and pressing a button.

"I think he's ready."

Turner leaned on the edge of his desk, flicking imaginary dust off his white suit until the door opened. Two large guys came in, one like a preppy bouncer, the other a biker type. "Be gentle," Turner admonished. They took me by the elbows, and pulled me to my feet. I moaned, leaning into their grip, wanting them to tighten their fingers and make it hurt, and hating the desire. I was taller than both of them, and when I tried going slack, they had to grab harder to keep me from going down. I shuddered in pleasure.

"How much did you give him?" the biker asked.

"A measured dose by body weight," was all Turner said. I caught the two men exchange a grim glance, and Turner must have seen it, too. "Don't worry, gentleman, he likes it even without the drugs. This will make the performance quite entertaining."

They led me down the corridor to another hall. The doors were widely spaced, and they brought me to number two. It was a long room, and I couldn't see everything, but at the end was a large cross with leather straps hanging. On the wall closest to the door were hooks with assortments of things that didn't bear a closer look, all in leather and chrome. Two women in robes were sitting in folding chairs near the hooks, one with a platinum wig, the other with natural brown hair falling to her elbows. Lighting gear lay on the floor or leaned on the wall, and two guys held cameras.

I looked at the women. One was the receptionist, her hair loosed from its bun, looking younger than she had seemed from behind the desk. It was Blue in the wig. She rose when I came in. "Lars?" The receptionist put a hand on her arm to restrain her.

One of the cameramen looked at me. "You're supposed to be a present from Madame X to Mistress Y. It's Mistress Y's graduation from trainee to dominatrix. Do what comes naturally, okay?"

He gave my face two quick slaps, not hard enough, and I shuddered, but didn't answer. I felt like I deserved whatever was going to happen to me, and my head and my body waited, craving whatever pain they were going to dole out.

They aimed the lights at a blank wall with a chain hoist, and I did what I could to get the hands holding me to grip harder, to move, to do something. I fidgeted to get the feel of cloth on skin. I wanted, needed, sensation. Blue and Madame X got up and shed the robes, revealing standard dominatrix gear. Blue was less steady on the heels, and as they walked over to the chain, she stumbled into Madame X, who steadied her with a touch that was intimate, proprietary. Watching it from the back, Blue's response looked like an odd conflict of leaning into it and tensing away.

I knew exactly how she felt.

The bouncers led me forward and shoved me into the area with the chain hoist. I crawled forward and knelt in front of Blue, rubbing my head against her boots like a cat. The drag of her leather on my face and the scratch of my hair against my own scalp was like ice and fire. I barely heard Madame X talking, or Blue's response. I assumed it was something to do with the thin plot setup the cameraman described. I felt a gloved hand under my chin. "Sit back," Madame X ordered.

I know I whimpered when she took her hand away, and I leaned right back down to Blue's boot. There were words over my head, and then she kicked me in the collarbone and pushed me back with her foot on my shoulder, the stiletto heel digging into my chest. I obeyed, then, and sat back on my heels, uncomfortable in my jeans and barely aware of why. Blue put cuffs on my wrists, padded and too soft, then latched them together in the front and attached the hook from the chain. It pulled me to my feet, hands above my head. The air was too empty and I rubbed my head against my arms.

Madame X and Blue stood in front of me, with Madame X wrapped around Blue from behind, running her hands over her vinyl-clad body and squeezing her breasts in the corset. She touched like she owned her, and Blue looked like she was reacting almost in spite of herself, parting her legs without prompting. I couldn't stand to see Blue like this, or to know I was hard from watching. I couldn't miss the words. "This is the one that hurt you, isn't it?" The platinum wig swung as Blue nodded. "What would you like to do to him?"

"Everything," Blue said. Madame X continued to stroke Blue, keying her up, describing all the things they might do to me. They might have drugged Blue, too, because she started moaning and pushing back against the woman, whispering her own suggestions of ways to cause me pain and humiliation. I was afraid, and I knew there were words coming out of my mouth, begging and denying. I wanted touched, needed to feel something, but I was afraid. Through my own haze I could see her eyes shining. I tried to say her name, make some appeal, but the next thing I knew there was a knife cutting open my T-shirt, a knife in Blue's hands, and despite everything, when I felt the blade nick me, I moved myself on the chain to try to make it cut me more.

I don't know how much of the rest of it I can describe. Turner had given me more Intensity than I'd taken that night with Brian, and while I remembered clearly everything that Brian and I did, only scenes and flashes ever came back from the first part of that night under the cameras. I was stripped and shaved on video before they got into the serious work. I know that I begged, not for them to stop, but for more. There were sharp, deep stripes from ropes used as whips, there were broad, surface stings from a flogger, and there were bright, hot flashes from clamps and clothes pins. I know that one of them fucked me with a big dildo, and I have a distinct memory of soft breasts against my back as I bucked for more, with the drag of the nipples on my skin bringing out the sting in every welt left by their whips as I came. After that, there was more pain. I think they tried to make me do things like drink from a bowl, but I was in no condition to obey any orders.

I remember when I finally begged for them to stop. I started to come back to myself and they ordered me to my knees while pulling me into position. I smelled like come and oil and sweat, and had a collar around my neck. Words started coming through to my brain again, and I heard Madame X telling Blue, "I think you broke your toy."

"Did I?" Blue reached down and pulled my head up to look at her. Platinum bangs framed her face, and her eyes shone hot and dark. "But I'm not satisfied, yet."

It was at eye level, and I couldn't miss that Blue was shaved, too. They had shed most of the dominatrix gear, and Madame X reached to touch her, intimate and deep. "My, my. You are a hot little slut, aren't you? Do you think he can get him up again?"

"We can try," Blue said. 

"The cross, I think," Madame X said. I glanced up to see her raising her fingers to Blue's mouth. I looked away as they put a leash on my collar, and led me on my hands and knees to the cross. 

There was a break then, and someone stuffed a pill down my throat, giving me water after, and I drank, not caring what it was. They left me on the floor as they moved the lighting, then the big guys strapped me on to the cross. The wood against my back and arms pressed on fresh bruises, and I moaned. I didn't think anything would make me hard again, but heard something about Viagra before the lights came up. Blue and Madame X both worked me with their mouths, a cameraman moving around for better angles, different views. When they got me hard, they put a cock ring around me, tight, and almost painful. 

This part I can remember in detail, and wish I didn't. Madame X helped Blue push herself down, and for the second time, I had my dick in her ass. I tried to ignore the porn talk going on, tried to ignore how despite everything, it felt good. I kept my hips still as she rode me and kept my eyes closed until Blue shifted, standing up and leaning back against my chest.

"You want more, don't you?" Madame X asked. "It's not enough, is it?"

I felt the hair from Blue's wig scrape my chest as she shook her head no.

"I have what you need."

I opened my eyes , and Madame X was walking toward us wearing a harness and dildo. The dick was about the same size and shape as Brian.

 _Oh, God. Brian. I'm so sorry_ , I thought, as Blue moved and I moaned, thinking about what was coming.

Madame X stepped up on the platform, grabbed my shoulder for leverage, and holy shit, but I could feel the dildo slide into Blue. I was so hard it hurt. The porn talk started again, but mixed into it were comments about me, about what a pain slut I was, and how I wasn't worth anything but to be used as they wanted. There was nowhere to rest my head, since it was between the upper arms of the X of the cross, so I leaned down and put my forehead on the top of the platinum wig, and believed every word.

She used us both, forcing orgasms out of Blue with a vibrator, eventually using it on me. When I was done, Madame X led Blue to another part of the room, camera following. Then she came back and undid the straps fastening me to the cross. My shoulders burned as my arms came down, and my legs could barely hold my weight. She hummed, as if satisfied, pushed me to my hands and knees, and led me by the leash to where Blue was bent over a padded bench, her legs spread wide. "Clean your mistress," Madame X said, then leaned to whisper, "Make it good. You do care what happens to her, don't you?" There was no mistaking the implied threat.

I knelt down behind Blue, and with a camera in my face, licked up a trail of my semen where it dripped down her leg, scared to death I would get it wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con. Drugged non-con.


	40. In which Turner inspects his prize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see notes at end

They put me in a room with a bed and a small bathroom. I wanted to fall into the bed, but I wanted more to wash off everything that had just happened. I wanted someone to talk to me, and I could almost hear voices in the water spray. There was only a bare bar of soap, and I used it on my hair, too, wishing I had a wash cloth or something to remove the layer of skin that had anything to do with what had just happened. There was only one small towel, and I needed it to dry off. 

I knew I was still tripping, and lay on the bed. It was too short and my feet hung off the edge. I couldn't think, and didn't want to move, but I got up and tried the door, not surprised to find it locked. I wanted a voice, a pen, some music, anything but the emptiness, the ache in both body and mind. I was nothing, and I had nothing and no one. I'd had Brian once, but I knew if he ever found me here, he'd tell me I was stupid enough to deserve whatever happened, that he didn't want me after I'd been beaten and used, after I'd broken my word.

I took the pillow and blanket from the bed, turned out the light, and stretched out on the carpeted floor. I must have slept, because I woke up blinking in a bright light, aching and sore. Turner was there with another man dressed in a shirt and slacks, balding with a potbelly hanging over his belt. I felt hung over, but mostly myself, and scrambled up, wincing with every movement, to sit on the bed with the blanket across my lap. I looked more closely at the second man, and he had a black bag and an odd-looking gun in a holster.

"Good morning, Mr. Dahl. Sorry to interrupt your rest after such an eventful night, but Dr. Fowler here has the unfortunate job of assuring that you heal from any of the more enthusiastic treatment you might have received."

"Fuck you, Turner. Let me out of here." My voice rasped. It was morning. I hadn't called Angie. She'd know what to do.

He smiled. "It would profit me not at all, and considering just how excellent you look on the videos from last night, why I'm comfortably assured that you'll be my next big star."

"Fuck you, Turner," I said again. "Let me out of here." I stood up, towering over both of them. 

"Dr. Fowler," Turner said.

The man drew his gun and shot me twice. I expected noise and pain, but there was only a popping sound and a sting in my chest. I looked down to see two darts, and I sat back heavily on the bed, wide awake, but sliding rapidly into uncaring. Fucking Ketamine.

I did what they asked, standing, bending over, submitting to the medical exam. Fowler whistled between his teeth as he worked and inspected every part of me, his gloved hands impersonal. He looked over my stitches, then reached into his bag for scissors and forceps, and removed them. He left me sitting and pulled the sheet over my lap.

"When will he be ready to perform again?" Turner asked.

Fowler pulled off his gloves. His voice held all the detachment I felt, and he sounded like any Southern professional. "No anal penetration for two days, and nothing big for a week. You could start him on plugs in a couple of days to get him used to it if that's what he'll be doing most. The welts are all good. No skin breakage, and the bruises are deep and won't show. Stand up, please, and turn around," he said to me. "Something you should see," he said to Turner.

I complied, and he poked the pentagram subdermal. "This one's in good shape but he used to have a second one. You have to be careful with these. I just removed the stitches from one that came out the wrong way. How did it come out?" he asked me. "Whip in the wrong place, or did you take it out on your own?"

"Belt," I said.

"Ah," he said, as if that explained something. "Nothing with wide straps on him unless you want to break the skin over this thing."

"Is that a pentagram?" Turner asked, leaning in to look.

"Yes," I said.

"What was the other one?"

"A goat's head."

"My, my, you are full of surprises. Are you some sort of devil worshipper?" he asked.

It was the exact question Brian had asked me on that first night, and I couldn't give the same answer. I had enough left in me to fuck with him. "You could say that," I said.

Turner clapped his hands. "A black mass, with a virgin, and sacrificing her virginity in a gang bang, ending in an orgy! You could guide us in setting the scene, Mr. Dahl, so there is just enough verisimilitude to raise it above complete tawdry imitation."

I didn't laugh. I was too messed up on Ketamine to do that, but somewhere in my head I thought this was fucking funny. "I don't think so," I managed to say.

"And why not, sir?" Turner said. "You have little other purpose in life, no? You have nothing and no one," he said. "I can give you what you need."

Something in me shifted, and I knew I wasn't tripping, but it was like a switch in my brain. I stared at the wall, and listened to Turner remind me that I was worthless and alone. Still, I managed to pull myself together to say, "I won't help you."

"Ah," he said. "So, cheesy it is. When will he be ready?"

The doctor said, "As long as there's no anal insertions, he's ready now. Unless you want him on something besides Ketamine."

"But we can't layer Intensity on top of that," Turner said.

"I can give you a short acting version of the second phase, if you need him hyper-responsive, and the Ketamine will wear off in a few hours."

"We have time for it to wear off, and then we'll see what's needed. There are aspects of set construction that might need to be undertaken." 

The doctor went to the bathroom and came back with a cup of water. He handed me four pills. "Ibuprofen," he said. I looked at them, and they looked like ibuprofen should, so I took them.

There was nothing for me to do but turn out the light when they left, so I lay back on the floor, and tried to go back to sleep. The painkillers kicked in, and I noticed, although I didn't care.

I woke up with someone nudging me with a foot. I was sore, so I must have slept for a long while, and face down, which seemed to be the only position that would avoid the bruises. The foot belonged to Fowler. "I brought you more ibuprofen," he said, and I looked to see him holding a glass of water and some pills. He still had the tranquilizer gun in a holster.

I sat up slowly. I hurt everywhere, and the painkillers would help, but I didn't trust the source. "No, thanks."

He took a sip from the glass. "It's water, and these came out of a WalMart bottle. You'll feel better if you take them."

"Got any Vicodin?" I asked.

"Probably somewhere, but this is all I have with me. I'm not going to stand here all day with my hand out."

I took the pills and then threw the water in Fowler's face, making a grab for the trank gun. In my head it was going to be an action movie scene, but it involved a lot of uncoordinated scrambling. I had height, weight and age on him. He had the advantages of being clothed, and not having been beaten or drugged. He won, and I got darted again, ending up sitting against the wall, noting the pain it caused in the welts in my back, but stuck in that Ketamine haze of not caring.

Fowler crouched down in front of me. "That was dumb. Work with us, and you'll be fine. You're not worth much more than this, are you? No one's going to miss you, and if you show up making porn, won't they just think it's par for the course?" He sounded like he was trying to continue Turner's work, but I wasn't on the right drugs. "We posted some clips from you first session on the web, and at least fifteen hundred people have already jacked off to the sight of you begging to be hit again. That's what you're good for." 

He wasn't as good at it as Turner was, but I didn't bother to critique his methods of fucking with my head. I looked down and thought he might have a bulge growing in his chinos. I wondered what he was getting off on, the memory of how I looked on video, or having me drugged and helpless? 

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do this?" I pulled the dart out of my chest and held it out to him. At least it was only one, and I wasn't completely zombied.

"Business," he said, taking it from my hand, but I knew already from that bulge in his pants there was more to it.

"You really a doctor?"

"Pharm D," he said. "EMT training, too."

"You created Intensity."

He smiled. "Great stuff, isn't it?"

"Ever take it?"

He snorted. "I made it for scum like you."

The door opened and Madame X walked in, dressed again in the receptionist clothes with her hair up. "How is he, Doc? Shad said there was something you needed to show me."

Fowler stood up, his crotch even with my face, and I didn't like what I saw. He held out a hand. "Stand up," he said. I couldn't think of any reason not to, so I did. He led me away from the wall, and pushed me to turn my back toward Madame X, keeping me between them, probably to hide his hard-on. 

"The welts look fine," she said, then, "Oh, what's this?" I felt her fingers on my back, tracing where the stitches had come out, then the pentagram under my skin on the other side. 

"They're called subdermals," Fowler said. "It's a body modification thing. He had another one, but someone took it out of him with a belt. You're lucky you didn't hit it. It could have been messy."

"Hmm," she said, walking around to my front. "Shad told me he wants to do a Black Mass scene with Goth boy here as the devil. Anal virginity sacrifice and orgy," she added almost absently. "You know, it might be very cool to do an Exorcist kind of thing, where he's possessed and we do the exorcism." She reached up and flipped the rings in my ear, turning them and looking at the different hoops, and I had that damn new reflex. I started to get hard. She noticed. "Oh, interesting. Anyway, nuns with dildos never gets old."

"His butt needs a day or two to recover," Fowler said.

"Hmm," she said again, flicking her fingers over the nipple and naval rings. "If we take these out, they can go back in, right?"

"I think so, if you don't wait too long." 

"All right, I'm done. We'll be back for him in about an hour. He just needs to show up and fuck, so I think all we'll need is to get some Viagra in him. Or maybe not." She ran her hand down my dick, which was mostly hard and jumped under her fingers. She glanced behind her to Fowler, and turned back to me with a smirk. "I'll bet he gives a great blow job. Why don't you test him out?"

She left, and he looked at me, as if wondering. His hand slid toward his crotch, but I bared my teeth and looked down at him. "You don't have enough drugs in me to trust your dick to my mouth."

His face changed to something that had fear, disgust, and threat mixed together. "If you care about your little girlfriend, you'll do as your told."

It was the second time they'd threatened Blue. "I thought she liked it here."

"She learned to. You will, too." That sounded ominous, even through the Ketamine. He stepped past me to the door, and I hoped he was leaving, but no such luck. He called in one of the bouncer types, the preppy one. "Dave? This guy's going to suck me off. Make sure he doesn't try anything."

The bouncer reached for the bill of his baseball cap, took off the hat, and seated it on his head again. "What am I supposed to do?"

"If I so much as flinch, pull him off me. Take an arm behind his back or something."

The guy had big hands, and he pulled my left arm up in a chicken wing, but didn't try to make it hurt. It hurt anyway, since I was sore enough from the chain and the cross. Fowler opened his chinos and pushed on my shoulder. "Kneel down." 

The bouncer followed me, but grunted. "Let me sit down." He probably had old football injuries or something. He let me go enough to settle behind me, and then gripped my wrist, painfully tight again. "Ready." 

So, I blew the doctor while he called me names, doing what I could to make it feel good to him, to make it fast. He pulled out and jacked himself on my face, which is not something I've ever liked or understood. He tucked himself back into his pants and wiped his hand in my hair. "All done," he said to the bouncer. The guy dropped my hand and stood up. "Hold him still," Fowler said, and rummaged in his black bag before pulling out another syringe and fitting a needle to it. 

I fought. It was stupid, and it hurt me, and the fucking bouncer was stronger than me and knew what he was doing. I felt a pinch in my ass and a burn from an injection. "Wait for someone to come to take him to the set," Fowler said to the bouncer, and walked out, whistling.

I remember the bouncer cleaning my face and hair in the sink, not too gently, and a voice at the door. Someone put a mask on me. Someone else sucked me hard and put a ring on me. Someone else put a slim plug in my ass.

"Hey, the doc said nothing in his butt," said a voice.

"I lubed it with antibiotic ointment. He'll be fine," said another. Male? Female? I wasn't sure. "It's his tail." I could feel the weight of something swinging off the plug. I couldn't see much of anything through the mask. The same voice came close. "Just fuck what's in front of you. Now, follow me." He brought me to a fake altar, and had me crouch behind it.

It's not worth detailing what happened. The dialog was stupid, the Latin bad, and I wanted to laugh, but there was a buzz through my body that wasn't a drug I knew. I can remember it, but I'd rather not. Mostly, I was mildly bored through the whole thing, but at least no one flogged me.

I woke up back in the same room, and there was a tray with plate of food and a container of orange juice on the floor. I was starving, so I wrapped myself in the blanket, ate, drank some of the juice, and took the ibuprofen that was also on the tray. There were four, all marked with an I-200, just like the normal generic stuff.

My head wasn't entirely clear, but with a pile of chicken and dressing in me, it worked slightly better. I had a headache from no caffeine, hoped the ibuprofen would stave it off. I wasn't exactly going to trust the coffee here, anyway. I sat back the juice next to me, wincing as my back hit the wall, though the pain wasn't as bad as the day before, if it had even been a full day since then. I had no idea what time or day it was. Then it hit me.

Something wasn't right. I knew enough about standard mind control methods to wonder why they were fucking it up the basics. There should have been someone with me, someone I trusted, or who they wanted me to learn to trust, bringing the food. They were controlling how I ate and slept, depriving me of even clothing, but other than Fowler's ham-handed attempt, no one was continuing the work Turner had started to break me down. Something was not going according to plan. I sat up, thinking that I couldn't be completely worthless if I could at least see that.

I'd sat up too fast and knocked over the orange juice. I cursed, and grabbed at the unused napkin on the tray. A marker fell out. That couldn't be an accident.

I uncapped it, stared for a moment at the black point, and started on my left arm, trying to make sense of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con


	41. The math doesn't work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see notes at end

"What the hell is that?" said a woman's voice.

I looked up from where I was writing on the bottom of my left foot to see Madame X and Shad Turner at the door. Fowler was in the room already with his trank gun out. I didn't favor them with a reply.

I glanced back at my body. Every part I could see and reach had writing on it—equations, diagrams, open-ended questions. The carp tattoo stood out as the one spot of color among the black lines, and symbols curled around the base of my dick, since the fact that they'd shaved me increased the available writing area. My right arm was still blank, as were my neck and face, and my back from the knees up. I couldn't reach those. 

Turner answered, "Miss Cunningham told me he had an alarming tendency to use himself when lacking notepaper, although I'm confused as to why he wouldn't take the normal crazy person's route of writing on the walls. I'm unsurprised he resorted to his habit of writing on himself, and find myself more puzzled by the question of how he obtained a marking instrument."

"I'll talk to Bette," said Madame X, with threat in her voice.

"No need," said Turner. "I'm entirely aware of Miss Cunninham's movements in the last hours, and can assure you she wasn't the guilty party." X shot him a look he didn't see, part jealousy, part eye roll. "Will it come off, I wonder?" he said.

I turned back to my work, looking at the symbols on the bottom of my toes, my own code so that Turner wouldn't know what I was thinking about. One meant DEA, another FBI , the third was Angie, the fourth was Ricky's mother, and the last one was Shad Turner. I flexed my foot so that they separated, and then curled them in together, wondering if I had them in the right order. Something had interrupted Turner's plans, and it could be the feds, Angie, Mrs. Cabot's private investigator, or something I couldn't know about Turner or his business. 

If Angie was smart, and she wasn't stupid, she called Brian when I didn't show up. I smiled, imagining them trying to pull off a visit like they were Mulder and Scully from the X-files, but they wouldn't have done that. They weren't stupid, but what the hell was taking them so long?

Madame X walked closer to me. "I think we can leave this stuff on for now, and someone can draw devil signs on the parts he hasn't reached yet. Is he on something?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Shouldn't be," Fowler said. I thought about the difference between theory and practice. In theory I should be sober, but in practice I knew I was not normal, or at least not normal for me. The markings on my body were a weird combination of occult symbols I thought I'd forgotten, mathematics, and plain words. It all made sense to me right now, but what would it look like if I were in my right mind? I knew I wasn't in my right mind.

"Get up, Goth boy," she said. I ignored her. "I said to get up."

I started a new line on the arch of my right foot, twisting awkwardly to get a good angle and trying to understand what was behind her jealousy. She wanted Blue for herself, or Blue was taking her place on Turner's dick.

"Get up!" she said. I glanced up, gave her a dismissive look, and went back to my work. "Doc?"

"Gotta time the Intensity for the exorcism scene. You said you wanted him loud and crazy. I dart him, that's not going to work."

She snorted, angry. "Is his ass ready? We're supposed to fuck him as part of it."

"He should be all right," Fowler said. So it had at least been two days. "You're going to want Dave and that new guy, the biker, to handle him."

"Monkey is the new guy," she told him. "Hmm." She walked around me. "I want him pissed off and horny to start, not Intense."

I could hear the capital I, and wondered what drugs they would use for "pissed off and horny." I could supply the first term of that operation without their damn drugs.

Turner walked over to see what I was doing, but I didn't look up beyond the toes of his white, tooled cowboy boots and the hem of his white trousers. There was no way he could read or understand all the markings, but I'd scattered, "I have nothing and no one" in a few places to let him think I believed all the things he said to me, and in truth, I did. The last four years were a complete waste, with nothing to show for them but a bunch of metal through holes in my body. Looked like I wasn't even worth an FBI raid, since no one had come for me. If I made it out of this, I wouldn't have Brian, Plan 9, or a dissertation project. I would have nothing, and no one, but there was no fucking way I was staying here. I'd sworn to myself in equations on my left hip that whatever they'd done to Blue, they were not going to do to me.

I wasn't on Intensity, but the Dead Guy laughed, telling me there was only one way out. I thought he might be right, but that was okay with me. I sketched the Live Guy's head on my right heel, wild haired and grinning, but with Xs where his eye should be, dead. Turner pulled the pen out of my hand, and I sat still then, not fighting, not helping.

Turner looked at the markings I'd made. "You are certainly a perplexing person, Mr. Dahl, a singular example of such an odd combination of nature and nurture that one couldn't classify you. Except I can." He leaned close. "You are a fuckable piece of trash who has squandered opportunities and wasted the gifts God gave him. So bent, you're nearly broken." I couldn't argue with any of that. He said, "I'll let the girls have their way with you this evening, play their little scene of driving the Devil out, and then I shall undertake the endeavor of putting you back together again in a way that serves me."

I looked at Turner, and laughed, deliberate and mocking. Brian had already beaten the Devil out of me, but I still had the pentagram. One purpose of a pentagram was to contain a demon you summoned, and another was to stand in the middle of it to protect yourself from the demons that came. I didn't believe in literal demons, but Shadrach Turner was evil, and demons fucking hate it when you laugh at them.

He stood upright and backhanded me across the mouth. I heard him walk across the room to the door.

"Go get ready," he said to Madame X. "Break him."

"With pleasure." She followed him out of the room, and Fowler walked over to look at me. His examination was good enough to find the picture of the dead Live Guy on my heel. He stood up and walked over to the bed, stripping it of the coverings and taking the pillow with him as well. Apparently he thought I was a suicide risk. Smart man.

I lay on the bare mattress, my feet hanging off the end, and waited until they came for me. One way to get Turner would be to push them so hard they'd try to break me all the way, to do something that would kill me, or hurt me to the point where they couldn't keep me here. They wouldn't know that a pair of federal agents knew where I was, and just might be looking for me.

I did not have nothing and no one. I had hope. I had my brain, my business partner's widow, and my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. I was sure of that last part, because there was no way Brian would want me after seeing what Turner's people filmed, watching me howl for Blue to fuck me and beg for Madame X not to stop with the flogger. He'd have to see the footage as part of the case, looking for evidence of drugged participants. I hoped to hell the scene they filmed with me on Intensity would give him enough rope to hang Turner, but I was pretty sure of what he would think of me after watching it. He'd never again believe the word you.

But it didn't matter, because he wasn't here. I'd probably been in here for a few days, maybe three or four. What was taking them so long? Maybe I had no one, after all. 

The door opened, and I sat up, without even a sheet to pull over my lap. "It's Dave and Monkey," I said. The two bouncers looked surprised to be named. Dave looked at me with disgust, probably because he'd watched me blow Fowler. Monkey had a different expression on his face as he ran his eyes over the markings on my skin. I couldn't read it, and thought that maybe bikers approved of ink in general. I stood to walk toward them, naked and brazen. Dave tensed, his frat boy face looking wary under the bill of his baseball cap. I rolled my eyes at him. "Oh, come on. You've proven you can beat me. Why should I fight you now?"

He exchanged a glance with Monkey, and Monkey said, "We've been warned not to trust you."

"That's right," I said. "I wouldn't trust me with an open bag of peanuts." I closed the distance and said, "But Dave here knows I give a great blowjob," as I grabbed his crotch. Damn if he wasn't half hard.

"Fucking faggot," he said, and shoved me. I stood my ground, squeezing his dick with a ripple of my fingers, and it twitched under my hand as he pulled back to slug me. He moved enough that I couldn't keep contact with his crotch.

Monkey caught his fist. "C'mon, you know he's playing you. You heard what Turner said."

"Turner said to break him. She told me."

"Yeah, dipshit, on camera. If he goes in there with a black eye, it ain't gonna look real."

"It's cheap porn," Dave said. "Who gives a fuck?"

What happened next surprised me. "I do," Monkey said, and he had Dave up against a wall in a move I couldn't follow. "I need this job, and you are not going to fuck it up for me, capishe?" Dave looked surprised and scared. He nodded as much as he could with that big, tattooed biker forearm across his neck. "Good," Monkey said, and let him down. "I don't think it's our job to fuck with the merchandise. Aren't you the one that told me we're supposed to move 'em from point A to point B, and keep things in control without leaving marks?"

Dave nodded again and rubbed his throat, shooting a pissed-off look at Monkey. I watched as Monkey leaned in and dropped his voice as if to keep me from hearing, but he was looking straight at me as he said, "Fowler said he might try to off himself. They're fucking with his head, and we don't need him driving himself off a bridge because Jesus tells him to." 

I tried not to react, but it was like a hot knife in my center. How could he know about that? Dave looked confused. "He's not going to get in a car."

Monkey dropped his gaze from me and gave Dave a slap up the side of his head, knocking his hat over his eyes. "It's a fucking metaphor. Aren't you the college guy? Point is, dead bodies are a bitch to get rid of. He was playing you on purpose, some fucking version of suicide by cop, you know, where a kid does something stupid just so the cop will shoot him. He wanted you to fuck him up." 

"Oh," Dave said, but he still looked pissed off. I had a feeling he was going to take it out on me. Monkey had put him in his place, and I was the closest thing he could kick that was lower than him.

"Yeah, fucking oh." Monkey shook his head. "Don't trust him means don't fucking trust anything he does to be what it looks like, got it?" He stepped toward me, reaching for my arm. "Come with us, and no fucking around, got it?"

My brain was slightly derailed by what Monkey had said about the bridge. He hadn't grabbed that particular metaphor by accident. Maybe Turner had said something, because Blue knew, but the way they were talking, why would the new guy hear it and the regular guy not? I didn't say anything until Monkey took me roughly by the arm. "I said to come with us and no fucking around. Got it?"

"Got it," I said. If they were on to me, there went Plan A. Plans B and C weren't so great. Plan C was to try to escape, but I was pretty sure that any direct attempt would result in a beat-down of some sort, and more drugs. Plan B made me want to throw up, but it was the best way to get to Plan C, or wait it out until something else happened. Plan B was to be a good boy and do what they wanted. 

I let Monkey and Dave lead me, stood still as someone drew devil designs on my back and right arm, and then waited for Fowler and his damn needle. People moved around, minimally dressing the set, but it wasn't until I saw the nuns that I had a clue as to what would happen. One of them walked up to me, and it was Blue, smiling.

"Hi, Lars. You get to be possessed by a demon and rape me. I'm an innocent, virginal nun. Doesn't that sound like fun?" She giggled up at me, and then looked over my body at the markings. "You sure look possessed. What is all this stuff? It looks like math."

I could sense Monkey and Dave nearby, tense, as if they were worried I would do something to her. I said, "Oh, the usual. You've seen it before. You okay?"

"Of course. Don't you just love this place?" She turned to go before I could answer, weaving her way back to the other nun, Madame X.

"Everything ready?" Fowler's voice came from behind me.

I turned to look at him. "I don't need it. I'll do what you want."

"Right," he said, and Dave grabbed my arm while a needle went into my butt.

"You don't need that," I said, trying to pull away.

"Oh, when you see this later, you'll thank me. Or at least the people jacking off to it will."

Dave and Madame X, also in a nun's habit, led me over to the side of the stage. There was a table, and Blue knelt beside it, eyes closed, as if praying. She looked innocent, her face smooth and untroubled. Maybe she did like it here, but I missed her old gloss of cynicism, the mercenary bitch. Maybe the Blue I knew was a fake, and this was the real thing, or maybe she was pretending to be this new Bette because it suited some mercenary plan of hers. I focused on her moving lips, wondering what it would be like to have her suck me. She'd never sucked me, had she? Or had she when they did the first movie, and I couldn't remember? I wanted that mouth, that lying bitch mouth.

X started stroking my dick with one hand, and I was hard. When had I gotten hard? She started to talk. "Go fuck her. She wants it. She doesn't know she wants it. Give it to her. Find out she's not the innocent little nun. You can turn her into a slut. Just rip that habit open, make her taste your dick, and fuck her. Go."

They let go of me, and I'm not proud of what happened next, the things I called Blue, the way I played her body from spite. I was pissed off and horny, all right, just the way they wanted me, thanks to Fowler's needle. At one point, as Blue, lying on the table on the bunched costume, writhing and begging to come again, I heard someone say, "Jesus, she's not acting."

I roared when I heard the voice. Jesus. That was Brian's. "Jesus!" was how Brian swore. Brian would hate this. I channeled the anger into pulling away when what I wanted to do was to jerk Blue's hips past the end of the table, push her legs back, and slam into her, turn what she liked into something that hurt. Punish her for liking it. This was all her fault, and if she hadn't taken that crap from Trey, I wouldn't be here. Fuck the bitch. 

But I didn't. 

I ended up on my knees, throbbing. My hands went instinctively to jacking myself as I yelled in incoherent anger, feeling like each stroke on my dick was part of a wave of rage breaking over my whole body. Between my own growls I could hear Blue's frustrated moans, the wet noise of her masturbating, and I hated her for it.

"Come on, lean back so we can see," said a voice, and I remembered the cameras and where I was. 

I froze, trembling in fury and my need for release, hating everyone, but most of all Fowler and his damned needles. No fucking way was I giving these bastards what they wanted. 

"Come on," the voice said again, and I lunged at it. There were hands on me before I could do much damage, but I thought I heard the satisfying crunch of a camera.

"Let him go," X said, "but stay close." They dropped me to my knees again, and someone gave a short, hard squeeze to my neck in warning, so I stayed there. "Get ready to start shooting again." I heard her murmur something to Blue, then "Okay." There was a short pause and she ran onto the set from the other side, calling, "Sister Mary Grace, what has happened to you? What a state to find a novice in! Look at you, your pussy is open and wet. Let me feel it. How did you get into this state of wanton lust?"

I made a noise that had its roots in laughter and pain. Porn dialog was always bad, and as angry as I was, the fake concern from Madame X sounded so stupid as to be funny. Unfortunately, it made her decide to notice me. "What's this? A deranged man with a hard cock? Has he debauched you, my dear? You are touching yourself!"

"More," Blue said. I realized she was drugged as well. How had I missed that?

"He has desecrated you!" X declaimed, "and he must be punished." She walked over to me, made dumb commentary about the markings on me. As she touched me to point out whatever it was they'd drawn on my back, I shivered and growled, turned on and angry at the same time. "The first punishment is to do to him what he did to you."

There was a pause as X stepped away, saying in a normal voice, "Get him ready," and then I heard Monkey saying, "Monks don't have ink. Make Dave do it." I looked around, watching as Dave pulled a brown robe over his bulky frame, his face looking less frat boy without the damn ball cap. "Take your shoes off," X said. I watched him toe off his shoes, then sit to take off his socks. He walked over and pushed me down on my hands, rough, taking out his annoyance on me.

I licked across his foot, just to piss him off, and he jumped, swearing. "Sure you don't want a blow job, asshole?" I said, pitching my voice low. "Do you go home and jack off from what you see at work, or maybe you can't wait, so you just do it in the can?" He pushed me onto my side, but I didn't let up. "You flunk out of college, Davey boy? Get a black mark in your frat? Or do you just like watching people have sex, since it's the closest you'll get? Or did you take this job to get pussy, but you still don't?"

I thought he was going to kick me, but Monkey's voice cut through. "Don't."

Dave stood still, then leaned down into my face and said, "You don't know anything, you stupid turd. Get your ass in the air so it can get fucked like the fucking faggot you are." He manhandled me into position, and then it started, Madame X and her damn dildo. I was still fucked up, and yelled at X, cursed her, let out everything I thought of her, what she did to Blue, and what I thought she deserved. She fucked me until I started repeating myself, then pulled out. "We can take this further," she said. "String him up."

They cut the cameras, and Dave and Monkey moved me to the room with the chain and hoist, and I fought, but it didn't matter. Monkey was a master at restraining without damage, and they put my wrists in the cuffs and pulled me up. I could feel the fight going out of me, as though the drug wore off as quickly as it came on, and I was thirsty. Fowler walked in with a big, heavy bag from a drug store. "They looked at me funny, but I got it." He began to pull bottles of rubbing alcohol from the bag, and poured them into plastic pitchers that had crosses drawn on them with black marker. "There's your holy water. How's he doing?"

Dave shrugged. Fowler walked up to me. "You feeling okay?" I spat at him. He grimaced and wiped his face. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You're probably pretty thirsty right now. Brought you a water bottle." He took the bottle out of a back pocket and uncapped it, holding it up toward my mouth. I hadn't heard a seal break as he twisted the cap.

I pulled away from him as much as I could, and as much as I wanted to drink something, I didn't trust him. "Intensity?" My voice was raw in my ears. I must have yelled even more than I thought I did.

"Yep," Fowler grinned, and I liked him marginally for not lying to me. "You going to drink it, or do I get Dave and Monkey to force the issue?"

"How much?"

"Standard dose for your bodyweight, same as last time."

"Half, please." I heard the words come out before I thought them. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to have enough to not be able to remember, or whether I wanted to know what happened. At the same time, the thirst was building enough that I would chug the whole thing, even knowing, if it would relieve the burning in my throat.

He pulled the bottle back, and looked at me as if trying to read something in another language. "You drink half of this on your own and for real, and I'll give you regular water, after." I nodded, and moved my head toward him, and he held the bottle while I drank. I didn't want to stop, but I did, thinking it was about half. He checked the level, then held it out again. "Three more swallows." I did as he asked, and he walked to a table and brought back more water, and this time I could hear the seal break. I drank all the water in it, almost nursing from the bottle like a hand-fed calf. It helped. I figured I had about half an hour of clearer head before the Intensity kicked in.

I was still pissed off, but the sense of resignation was new. Sure, my head was relatively clear, but I was still strung up, covered in symbols, questions and equations I couldn't solve, wondering what was going to happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drugged non-con


	42. Broken beyond recognition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see notes at end

The first pitcher of rubbing alcohol was a shock, cold as it evaporated, running down my body and leaving black trails as it dissolved the ink. X had called it holy water before she poured it. "Look, the holy water is removing the demon markings!" I struggled, both against the cold and the loss of my notes. "See how the demon fights. We shall drive him out!" 

My foot made contact with something yielding that grunted, but that only got my ankles chained to a ring on the floor. Madame X in her habit, which was hanging open to show the dildo in its harness, along with Dave still in the stupid monk robe and bare feet, poured the alcohol on me and rubbed me down with a towel while they did it. Madame X spouted bad lines about driving out the demon by removing his marks. By the time they were done, I felt my brain going into the Intensity mode, the landscape opening up. I expected to find it littered with my failings, with the Dead Guy sitting enthroned. It didn't matter. I didn't care. I wanted it over. 

I closed my eyes, and when they took down the restraints, I went where they led me. I found Dead Guy stretched out on the on the open space in my head, a field as blank as my skin now was, his head pillowed on his arms with a satisfied smugness on his skeletal face, pretending to sleep.

They led me to a chair, and I sat in it, wondering at the sudden buzzing sound. Dave stood in front of me and held my face. Then I felt the clippers against my head, and I was ten years old and sitting in the barber's chair, getting my hair cut in the military style my dad required, Dad's big hands holding me still, threatening to hurt me if I moved. I opened my eyes for a moment, and the sight of falling black locks made my stomach turn. I wondered what I would look like, and I flashed back to that image of myself reflected in a pair of mirrored sunglasses, no eyeliner and my hair slicked back and wet from the shower—the Sergeant's glasses from the night that Brian had brought him over to my house, so long ago. What was it he had said? "You strip him down, and you can shape him however you like."

No fucking way. I started trying to fight, but someone used a fucking taser on me and I sat still. Hair would grow, I told myself. They couldn't shape me, couldn't own me by cutting off my hair. 

When they were done, I let them lead me to a large table, where they told me to lie down. They took my arms and legs and tied them, leaving me spread-eagled. My head felt strange, cool. I could feel air currents on my scalp as people moved around me. The Dead Guy rubbed the top of his skull, as if to point out that I was more like him now. I looked around the inside of my head, tried to find something, even just the corpse of the Live Guy or the pen he'd been using, but there was nothing. I wanted a pen. There were voices around me, and I ignored them as I tried to make something, anything happen on that bare landscape inside my skull, but there was nothing but the Dead Guy, pretending to nap.

I ignored the first tugs at my navel, but they got more painful and more nauseating. I pulled against the bonds and tried to move away, but that only made it worse, and bile rose in my mouth. Hands held me down, and I stopped fighting until there was nothing I could do but curl forward as the water in my stomach came up. I hoped some of the Intensity came with it, but I was enough along in the trip that it probably wouldn't matter.

There was cursing, and I felt something mop the vomit off my face and chest, and off the table around me. Madame X said, "You see, the metal was helping to bind the demon in him. It is trying to come out. Let us take them all out."

I opened my eyes at that, and saw them, draped in the cheesy religious habits, hers hanging open so that I could see her tits. Madame X had two pairs of pliers, and was holding a ring in one of them. I looked down my body and saw the navel ring was gone. I closed my eyes again, and the Dead Guy ran his hand down his stomach, over the T-shirt that covered his bones, and laughed at me. I was getting more like him with every passing minute.

They went after the nipple ring next, which almost felt good, but then they used tongs to hold my tongue as they unscrewed the ends of the barbell. It hurt, and I gagged, but I couldn't fight it, even though this felt worse than the haircut. When they went for the eyebrow and earrings, the reflex Brian had given me kicked in, and I started to get hard despite myself. I couldn't stay here for this, but nowhere in that black expanse where Dead Guy lounged was there a place for me to hide.

Then I remembered the pentagram over my left kidney. They couldn't take that out without cutting, and since I was tied on my back, it couldn't even be on their radar. I don't know how to describe it, other than to say I went there. I hid myself in the center of my subdermal, just aware enough to feel the dildo, and that someone was stroking my dick, then riding on it, while porn dialog was spoken. I was safe, and they couldn't touch me, no matter what they did to my body.

In the end they dressed me, sat me up, and put me in front of a mirror. The figure that looked back wore chinos and a polo shirt, shorn and plain-faced. I had no idea who it was, but they told me I was free of the demon. The cameras turned off, and a voice said, "Now that's weird porn." They led me to another set where a man I hadn't seen before stood waiting. He wore a suit, and he was broad underneath it. He had a day's worth of stubble. 

They led me to another set, one that looked like an office, and the guy in the suit sat down behind the desk, pretending to work. I watched as he switched the computer screen to porn, heavy bondage porn, and he opened his pants and started to jack off. A guy I'd never seen before, wearing a shirt with his name on it like he was some maintenance man, walked up to me and took me by the arm. His grip was tight, and all I could notice was that he was only a few inches shorter than me. I was so deep in my head he had to shake me before I understood that he was saying, "You ready?" I shrugged. "Don't give in too easy. Give him some attitude, right?" I didn't do anything. "Right?" He squeezed my arm hard, until I nodded.

Someone knocked somewhere on the set, like a knock on the door, and the guy under the lights put his dick away and turned off the computer screen, turning to pretend like he was working on something else. "Come in." That must have been our cue, because the guy holding my arm steered me onto the set.

"Jones," the suit guy said. His voice was deep, and matched his conventional good looks. "What can I do for you?"

"I think I found the perfect submissive for you to break. He's from the frat house where I went to fix that door, remember?"

"I remember. What makes you think he needs breaking?" 

"He's got a bad attitude. Wouldn't suck my dick when I asked him to."

"How did you get him to come with you here?"

"I threatened to tell his frat brothers about his gay bondage porn stash."

"Now I begin to see why you asked him to suck your dick in the first place." The suit got up from behind the desk and stood in front of me. "So you don't want your college friends to know that you jack off to men in leather?" 

In my head, Dead Guy stood up in a pair of backless chaps, a harness over his rib cage. He strutted around, and cracked a whip, and somehow, it wasn't funny. The image was shattered by a hand across my face, hard. "I asked you a question, boy. Do you jack off to the idea of someone dominating you?"

I managed to speak. "Maybe I'm a top," I croaked. I didn't even believe myself. 

He slapped me again. "Don't make me laugh. You dream about this stuff, but you never had a real master before. Get on your knees." I didn't move. "I said on your knees. Can you help, Jones?" They guy in the work shirt used a move I knew as a bouncer. He still gripped my arm, and he pulled me off balance as his knee hit the back of my leg hard enough for my knee to bend. I hit the carpet on my side. "Up on your knees. Now."

I can do this. I've done this before, I thought. Plan B. Be a good boy. I rolled to my knees and looked up at him, trying to say that I would do whatever he wanted. "Eyes down." I did what he asked, and focused on his shoes. They were high-gloss oxfords, and overlaying them in my brain was the Dead Guy, dressed like the Sergeant in the same damn shoes, sprawled out on something that looked like my Victorian love seat. Eventually the voice came through my head again, "I told you to lick my shoes."

That first night with Brian, where I licked his boots—I had the sense memory of the taste of exhaust, the feel of slick leather under my tongue. I didn't want to do that here, to take something away from what had only been Brian's. I couldn't answer, and Dead Guy uncrossed his legs and waved his foot in the air.

"Jones, I think he needs some motivation. Show him your motivator." I heard rummaging, and then a thick piece of braided rope landed on the floor in front of me. The guy in the suit stepped over and picked it up. He leaned close to my ear and said, "When I tell you to do something, if I ask you a question, there is only one right answer, and that is _Yes, sir._ Do you understand me?"

Dead guy was on his knees in a parody of submission, laughing at me. I didn't answer. The rope came down hard on my back, a blunt impact that hurt. "Lick my shoes." I didn't answer fast enough, because I was watching Dead Guy, and the thing came down hard enough to knock the wind out of me. "Lick my shoes."

I bent over, not wanting to, and he stopped me with his foot on my shoulder. In my head, Dead Guy was watching a movie of me on my knees in front of the Sergeant, Brian holding my leash. I must not have heard the guy in the suit say something, because the next thing I knew the rope came down again on my back. "What do you say when I give you an order?" Again I wasn't fast enough, and they had hit me before I could answer. "Try again. Lick my shoes."

"Yes, sir." In my head, Dead Guy smiled. I leaned over and tasted polish, felt the texture of shoelaces. "Good boy. Get that mouth ready." I heard the scrape of the zipper, the rustle of his hand as he jacked himself. After a few long moments, he said, "Come up here and suck me."

I moved up and reached for his dick with my mouth, but someone, it must have been Jones, grabbed my head, fingers tight down my forehead, and pulled me away, the rope landing on my back again. "What do you say?"

"Yes, sir." Dead Guy laughed and held up a mirror. I didn't recognize myself. 

"Try again. Suck me."

"Yes, sir." It came out quick enough, and Jones let go of my hair and pushed me forward. The cock jutted out of the open fly, obscene against the sleek lines of the suit, and I put my mouth over the head of his cock and sucked him down hard and fast. 

"That's it. That's a good start. Do you like that, boy?"

I didn't say anything, because I didn't like it. It was just something I had to do as part of Plan B. Jones pulled me off and hit me again. "What do you say?"

It hurt, and I had to catch my breath. The rope came down before I could answer. I choked out a yes, sir as fast as I could. 

"Now, suck me again. Make it pretty."

"Yes, sir." I got the words out quickly this time. In my head, Dead Guy stood with a thick, braided rope like the one they were using, wearing a suit, and smiling his evil smile. He looked very satisfied. I was deep enough in my head that I didn't do what he asked, and the rope hit my back again with a bruising pain, and he repeated the command.

I leaned forward and licked up the shaft, feeling each vein with my tongue, flattening it out to drag the barbell, but it wasn't there. Even so, it got a noise out of him, and he pulled me off, palm flat against my cheek. He slid his fingers down and ran his thumb over my lower lip. "Open up and let me see that mouth of yours." I obeyed, but I forgot to say Yes, sir, so the rope came down again. I said the words against his thumb, and the dull, bruising ache from the other times they hit me was turning brighter and sharper. He slid his thumb between my lips and onto my lower teeth. I opened my mouth and he moved his thumb over my tongue. "Such a slut hidden under that polo shirt. Take it off." 

"Yes sir." I pulled off the shirt, and Dead Guy wolf whistled between his skull's teeth.

"I want to watch that mouth at work. Jones, step up here and let him suck you. Go on, you slut. Show me what that mouth can do. Make it good."

I heard the Sergeant's voice echo in my head. He had said something like that to me, or really to Brian. Dead Guy was watching the porn movie again, the one of that night with Brian. Brian. The rope came down on my back, and this time the pain felt bloody. "Yes, sir." Jones stepped up to me, opening his work pants. 

Suddenly things stopped, and there was something going on with the film crew. I'd forgotten about them. I didn't want to think about them. I couldn't do this. I couldn’t stay here for this, but when I went into my head the Dead Guy held up a NO VACANCY sign. I needed to go somewhere, and I remembered the pentagram still under my skin. Pentagrams were to trap demons, but they could also keep demons out. I put myself into the pentagram. I concentrated on it until someone said, "Action," and there was a dick in front of me, not quite half hard, and a hand on my head pulling me forward. 

I sucked him, but it wasn't me. I sucked the cock sticking out of the suit again, but that wasn't me, either. I was safe in the metal over my left kidney, until I noticed I was leaning into the hands on my head, opening my throat more and wanting the stretch of jaw.

I couldn't keep myself in the pentagram as the next phase of the trip started. Fowler must have lied, because the half of the dose I'd drunk from the bottle was as much, or more, than Madame X had slipped into my coffee. He must have put in extra, assuming I'd spill at least half of it. I tried to keep my mind in the confines of the star of surgical steel under my skin, but they were doing things to me, demanding things of me, that I couldn't ignore. Dead Guy came down and put out a hand and I emerged and became my body, became sensation, lived for the bright, flashing, necessary pain.

I did not beg, of that I was sure. As much as the Intensity made me want the sensation, I was afraid of it, afraid of needing it, of getting it from anyone other than Brian. I remember male voices, the crack of whips, cuffs and restraints that tied in any number of ways, and my own voice in my ears saying, "Yes, sir. Yes, sir," as if I could obey well enough to make them stop. Maybe I couldn't stay in the pentagram, but I could put Brian in there, and I did. Brian, who gave me what I needed even when I wanted something else. Brian, who made me obey because I wanted to, not because he would punish me, who called me freak, but never worthless piece of shit.

I came back to myself in the middle of a bare room with a bed. It looked like the one I'd been in before, but who could tell? I was not alone. Blue was there, dressed in a bathrobe, her skull covered by brown fuzz, holding my hand. I could smell things on me I did not want to name. I hurt everywhere.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said her nose wrinkling, and led me to the bathroom. "Take these first." She handed me some pills, and I glanced at them before swallowing. They were shaped and colored like ibuprofen and Vicodin, and I hoped they were. The water stung, even though I knew it wasn't hot, and I wondered now badly they had beaten me. I ached inside and out, and I knew I had been fucked, rough and hard, by who knows how many and with what. We couldn't both fit in the shower cabinet, but she was small and didn't seem to care about water getting on the floor. She washed me, trying to be gentle, but I hissed at the fire that erupted every time she touched my back. I leaned my shoulder on the wall, not wanting to remember the last set of hands that had washed me, larger, their touch firmer. Brian.

She wouldn't see the tears in the shower, so I let them fall, breathing deep and slow to keep myself from sobbing. No one was coming for me—not Brian, not Angie. Blue must have sensed something, because she started talking to me, soothing nonsense at first, but then she started talking about the exorcism movie we'd just made. "God, you were amazing!" she gushed. "I came so hard, and I've seen the rushes and they caught it all. You look like you're possessed, and the things you said, I had no idea you could talk dirty like that. Oh, I felt like such a perfect little whore. I couldn't get enough of your cock—"

I couldn't listen to it. "Blue, shut up. Please." It hurt to talk. My throat rasped, and my tongue felt bruised and wrong.

"Bette," she corrected, "and isn't this place great? I mean—"

I kept my voice steady, but it was rough. "Please don't talk."

"But," she started, then hesitated. "You should want talking now."

I did. I desperately wanted a voice, but I couldn't bear to hear the things she was saying, especially not about herself. I wanted to be angry with her, and at least the anger took over from the self-pity, and I got hold of myself. "I don't want to talk about this place. Just read me the phone book or something." I made myself look at her, and her face seemed open and maybe showing a little hurt. I couldn't move, could barely think. "Tell me about when you were a kid."

Her face closed, and for the first time she looked more like the Blue I knew. She turned off the water and pulled me out of the shower, handing me a towel and drying herself. I held the towel in nerveless fingers. "You're getting it wet!" Blue said when she looked up. She snatched the towel from where I had let it drag on the shower floor and frowned, She dried me the same way she washed me, too gentle, although from the way it hurt when she touched my back and my ass, it was probably a good thing. 

I looked down at myself, and only the carp tattoo told me it was still me. There was no ring in my nipple or navel, no hair at the crotch, but I saw red marks on my chest, ringing my nipples and tracing two lines down my belly. My gaze rested on the fish in full color on my upper right thigh. That was mine. That was me. 

I walked past Blue to the bed and sat down, which hurt. She followed and sat next to me. "Lars?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you like it here?"

I knew whatever I said, it would get back to Turner. "Look, Blue—" The L felt very strange without the metal through my tongue.

"I'm not Blue!" she said, and she sounded angry. "They give you what you want. Didn't you tell me you like to be hit, and I know you've gotten off on it. It's not like a guy can fake it. And you're so good at it."

"I haven't been in my right mind the whole time I've been here," I said flatly. "I'm tripping now." I didn't wanted her voice to stop, just to say different things. I hadn't been kidding about the phone book.

"I know, honey," she said, "and I'm trying to help. You're in the talk-to-me phase, and I came to talk to you, but you told me to shut up."

"I don't want to talk about this place, or what I just did. I can't remember much of it, and I don't want to."

"So you don't like it here?" She sounded bewildered.

I didn't answer, but lay back on the bed, which was a mistake. My back was sensitive, to say the least, and eventually I found a way to lie on my side. Maybe Dead Guy would come out and talk to me, I thought, but he never said anything anyway.

Blue lay next to me, pillowing her head on my outstretched arm. "What about you?" I asked. "Do you really like it here?"

"Of course," she said, and she sounded like she meant it.

All this was for nothing. I had hoped to get her out, but I was too late. "Talk to me," I said.

She did, but it was all nonsense, the stories from books she'd liked as a kid. She said nothing about the porn, Turner, or about the time I'd known her at Plan 9. I don't remember much, and must have fallen asleep as the Vicodin kicked in. 

When I woke, Blue was still in the bed with me, tucked up spoon fashion. When I stirred, she did too, wiggling her ass against my morning hard-on. "I'd love to fuck you, but if they're shooting today, you can't come, yet."

I didn't say anything, just swallowed down my disgust as I climbed over her and out of the bed, groaning at every movement, and headed for the bathroom to take a piss. Someone had left a bottle of ibuprofen, and feeling like I had nothing to lose if they weren't what the label said, I poured a few into my palm, intending to take four. Mixed in with the small pills were larger ones, capsule-shaped, marked with M357. Vicodin. I took four ibuprofen and two of the Vicodin. With the pills washed down, I braved the mirror to see the stranger looking back. I hadn't seen this face since I was maybe twenty, and it had aged and filled out a bit in the last nine years. I hadn't dyed my hair in a few weeks, so the short buzz cut that stood up on my scalp was a light brown. There was stubble on my cheeks, and I scratched at my crotch to find out if hair was growing back there, too, but my fingers slid over smooth skin. 

"I can get clothes for you," Blue said as I came out of the bathroom. She slid past me to go inside, saying, "I think they'll fit. We can go out to the office today, if you want."

She offered it like a gift, and I suppose it was, since no one had let me out of this room other than to drug me and fuck me. She peed, pulled on the robe and left, and I went to the door to find it locked behind her. I waited on the bed for what felt like a long time, and she came back wearing a dress and the brown wig, and carrying a tray of breakfast and a plastic shopping bag of clothing. I didn't realize how hungry I was until she set the tray on the floor and slid to sit next to it. How often had I eaten? How long had I even been here? I ate and ignored her as she chattered about bands she'd seen when they let her in the front office.

The clothes were the right size, and I guess the style fit my new look. There were khaki pants and a dark blue polo shirt with a designer symbol embroidered on the left chest, socks, and shoes of a style I hadn't worn since sixth grade Sunday school. It hurt to dress, and I had a feeling the worst of the pain was yet to come. There were marks on my ankles, but my wrists were barely red. They must have used padded cuffs the whole time, and I wanted to laugh at the slight consideration they had given me. I pulled on white briefs that still had fold lines from the packaging, settling them gingerly over my sore ass, and then pulled on the rest of the clothes, which smelled new. The shirt was stiff, and irritated my back, but the painkillers had kicked in and dampened the fire down. The shoes felt all right. I didn't want to see a mirror.

She took me out of the room, never letting go of my hand, and led me through hallways, past doors. It was the first time I'd been let out without Dave or Monkey to control me. I could leave, just walk out the front door. Blue stopped at the door to Turner's office and knocked, but I kept going, heading out, until I heard his deep voice behind me. "Stop, Mr. Dahl."

I stopped immediately, and said, "Yes, sir." My heart started pounding. I was afraid.

"You will stay in the reception area, and you will do what Mistress Bette tells you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." My eyes were on the floor, even though he was behind me. I knew I wasn't allowed to look at him.

"You will not go near the door."

"Yes, sir." 

"Good boy." He sounded very satisfied.

I was ashamed at the sense of relief I felt when I heard those words. They had fucked with my head.

When we reached the waiting room, I looked for a clue of day or time. The clock read 11:17, and there was light through the glass door of the entry. Morning, then, but what day? I sat in one of the chairs and leaned forward to stop the pressure from hurting my back, and then picked up one of the local papers. It was Wednesday, unless it was an old paper, but I didn't think so. Wednesday meant I'd been here five days.

Blue took the seat behind the receptionist's desk, and I pretended to look at newspapers while trying to remember what they'd done to me, to understand why I was afraid and had to obey. I could remember nothing. Eventually there was a buzzing noise indicating someone was at the door. The thought of the door made me afraid. I couldn't go near it, because Turner had ordered me not to. Blue leaned over a console, pressed a button, and said, "Turner Enterprises." She looked like a kid, pleased to play a grown-up role.

A voice cracked in the speakers. "Is Mr. Turner in?"

Madame X appeared in the hallway and crossed to the desk. She looked over Blue's shoulder, and pressed the button. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Turner isn't available."

"I see. Can I make an appointment?" 

"Why don't you leave a business card in the box, and we'll talk to Mr. Turner when he's in? What would you like to see him about?"

"Um, computer networks, business software."

"Leave a card," said Madame X. She stood up and snorted, and Blue looked up at her. X smoothed her face and patted Blue. "Another one. Take Lars back to your room. I don't think we'll be shooting today. You two go play." Her tone was motherly and dismissive, and she disappeared down the hall, her back stiff and head down, as if she were worried.

Blue came from behind the desk and pulled the paper out of my hand. "Come on!" she said. I let her pull me to my feet, but on the way past the desk I grabbed a pen.

It looked like Blue was taking me to my room, although I couldn't have told you which door led to the spare cell where they'd had me sleep. When she opened the door, though, the colors surprised me. The entire room was decorated in pinks and magentas, although the fairies in one of the wall posters were frozen in acts I'd never imagined, nor did I want to. The combination of childish images and pornography struck a strange nerve, but if this was how they were programming her, it explained a few things. Blue stripped, while I just stood there, watching, trying not to look at the image on the wall of a big cocked pony shooting sparkly stars on the faces of a pair of naked fairies. It was like a car wreck, though, and my eyes kept going back to it. Blue knelt in front of me and opened my pants, peeling back the waistband of the white briefs to suck me. I couldn't get it up past the pain that was breaking through the Vicodin, past the thought of the damn porno pony, or past what she had become.

"Blue," I said. "Bette. No, please." 

"It's okay," she said, standing up and wiping her mouth as I put myself back together. "You had a workout yesterday." She sat on the bed and spread her legs. "I'm horny, though. Would you eat me, please?"

I didn't have anything better to do, and she didn't have any underwear on. It was weird without the barbell in my tongue, and I had to learn new tricks. I'd made her come once, and was working her up toward a second one, making a mental game of cataloging what actions got her to make which noises, when there was a knock on the door. 

"Get out here, now." It sounded like Dave, and I felt a rush of fear, but I didn't know where it came from. What had they done to me? The door opened, and he stood there. "Come with me."

"Yes, sir," I said, automatically, standing up, and putting my gaze on the floor. I was afraid of him.

"Get up," he added to Blue, barely glancing toward where she lay flushed and panting on the bed. She whined, but she got up and smoothed her dress, straightening the wig by touch. I had no thought of fighting him, of resisting. I reached back to rub at the bit of metal over my kidney, but the skin over it was bruised and swollen enough that I couldn't feel the pentagram without it hurting. It hadn't protected me as much as I had hoped, and trying to put Brian in there probably hadn't helped, either. Thinking his name was hard, and everything to do with Brian felt remote, like I couldn't touch it, like I didn't deserve it. Something had happened to my head, and I followed Dave and his damn ball cap down the hall, not able to look up past his shoes. 

He brought us to an office area, a small one with a few computers and some files. "Make him look useful," he said to someone I couldn't see. A guy came to the door, a middle aged Southern boy with a second chin. He nodded. Before Dave left, he looked at me. "Behave. Do what he tells you. She's gonna be with me." 

Again, they threatened Blue to keep me in line, but they didn't need to. "Yes, sir," came automatically with a rush of sweat, of fear. A feeling worked its way in through the Vicodin, something like anger, but I had to push it down, and not show it, or they would hurt me, I was sure. The only thing I'd done all morning for myself, just because I wanted to, was to steal the pen. Dave left with Blue, who didn't even glance back at me, and the office guy stepped up to me.

"You know anything about computers?"

"No, sir, not much," I answered, looking at the floor. I was afraid of him, too, and I'd never seen him before.

"Hmm." He turned to one of the machines, brought up a file that looked a lot like Ricky's scheduling system. "This is how we book the bands and keep the tours straight. That's all you tell them. Anything else, you tell them they have to talk to me since you just started working here. Say nothing. You have ID?" I shook my head. "You lost your wallet out drinking last night, right? Take a seat. My name is Jerry Tatum, and I'm your boss. Say it."

"Yes, sir. Jerry Tatum," I said. 

"You don't talk to anyone unless I say so."

"Yes, sir." I had no idea what was going on, but I sat down in the chair he indicated, which left me with my back to him. I heard him swear, open a filing cabinet, and then the noise of something grinding. I looked at the computer in front of me, not sure what he was doing on the other side of the room. The chair was padded, but I didn't lean back. The computer's clock said it was already 2:34. He didn't tell me what to do, so I scrolled through the file in front of me, which was a simple spreadsheet program for band tours. I recognized names for most of the bands and some of the clubs. There were entries for Plan 9 up until a few weeks ago, and then it looked like some re-routing. I went through the list, noting the Plan 9 dates and trying to remember each of the nights, all those bands. 

I'd gone back three years when there was a pounding on the door. "Federal agents. Open up!" I flinched.

"I'm coming!" said the guy. "This better not be a joke, we're busy in here." I turned to watch him, his actions putting lie to the words. He knew exactly what was out there. He opened the door from as far back as he could, and kept his hands where they would be seen, without actually putting them up over his head. I was looking at two agents in body armor, guns pointed at us. They wore hats with GBI in large letters. Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I put my hands up.

"What is this?" asked the agent in front. It was a woman, I was relieved for some reason.

"Logistics and accounting," said my new "boss."

"Bingo," said a voice behind. "We'll tag all these for computer forensics."

"Do that. I'll take them to the holding area. Come with me," said the lead agent, and she pushed us through the halls ahead of her. We ended up in the waiting area with a few other people I didn't recognize, and a couple I thought I did, including a cameraman who looked scared shitless. I wanted to tell her who I was, but the computer guy had ordered me not to talk. I would be punished if I disobeyed. I glanced at the clock, and it was about a quarter after three. The seats were filled, so they sat me in the receptionist's chair. There was a lot behind that innocuous desk, including a bank of six labeled screens that were hard to see unless you sat in the chair, angled so you might not even notice them if you were standing. They showed the main entrance a few other outside areas, probably the other exits from the building, but there wasn't much activity outside the main entrance. 

Outside the front door, the camera picked up some cars and movement of people. As I watched I saw FBI, and GBI in large letters on the T-shirts and jackets. I didn't understand what was happening, but the agents seemed relaxed enough to hold coffee cups. I felt like the patterns of movement should mean something, but they didn't. I heard voices in the halls behind me, and GBI and FBI agents came and went through the front door. A few more of Turner's people joined us in the office. I glanced at everyone, and then there was a flurry back and forth, and someone said, "They found the lab." The labels on the new agents that came in were DEA. I looked at all the faces, trying to find Brian, and he came in at the end of the line. 

His eyes swept over the gathered people in the reception area, stopping right on me, then passing on without any sign of recognition beyond a slight frown that could have meant anything. I had frozen, afraid—not afraid of him, but afraid of what he thought of me—and hadn't been able to say anything, but it didn't matter. Either he had his cop face on in the extreme, or I was right, and he didn't want me, didn't want to even acknowledge that he knew me. Maybe it would screw up the investigation, and maybe he'd seen those clips on the Internet that Fowler talked about. I let myself watch him as he followed the other agents up, glad at least that I'd had a final look.

I took the pen out of my pocket, uncapped it, and looked at the point. After a long minute, I decided not to put it back on the desk where I'd swiped it earlier. I put the cap back on, and clipped it by the buttons of the polo shirt, a cool line against my skin to counter where my back was starting to burn again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con. Drugged non-con. Violence.


	43. In which rescue hurts, too

A movement in one of the screens under the desk caught my eye. It was Fowler, heading out one of the other exits. He paused, looking around like he couldn't believe the coast was clear. He had the trank gun on his hip, and a satchel in his hand. As he turned, I watched him startle, grab the trank gun and fire, and then fall. I heard a distant gunshot as he fell.

The sound of the gun changed everything. Agent voices started shouting, and I heard, "Shots fired!" The officers watching over us in the reception area pulled their guns, aiming them at the floor and looking around on alert. The one closest to me, thank God, was the woman from the GBI. Maybe she wouldn't hurt me for talking, so I said, "Excuse me."

"What?" She barely glanced my way.

I pointed at the label on the screen. "South door." I stood up and backed away from the desk. "The gunshot was someone hitting him." I bent down to touch the image of Fowler, who was moving slightly. "That gun next to him is tranquilizer darts."

"What?" The agent leaned down so she could see the screen.

"Ketamine," I said. "He loaded the darts with Ketamine. It's a veterinary tranquilizer sometimes used as—" 

She cut me off. "I know what it is." She stood up and started talking into her radio, identifying herself and saying, "The shot was at the south door, fired by a friendly. One suspect is down. I can see him on closed circuit camera. Wait." The agent could see something I couldn't. "I see an FBI agent at the scene."

I crouched down out of her way, which made things inside me hurt in ways I didn't want to think about on top of the ache in my joints, and looked over the agent's shoulder. The FBI agent was starting to lean over Fowler, a straight ponytail hanging from the back of her cap and over her body armor. "Kick the gun. Kick the gun!" the agent next to me said. While we watched, Fowler got his hands on the trank gun again, and fired it right into her neck. The agent staggered back, and dropped, and I could see who it was. 

"Angie," I said.

"Agent down! South door!" said the GBI officer into her radio. Then she looked at me. "What did you say?" 

"That's Special Agent Angela Grissom. FBI."

The GBI agent looked at me. "You see ay?" she asked, her voice pitched low. I had no idea what she meant, so I shook my head, and she looked back at the monitors, keyed her radio and said, "Agent is down at the south door. She is not wounded, but probably drugged with Ketamine. One of the detainees has IDed her as FBI's Grissom. Check her neck for darts," she said into her radio before turning back to me. "Go sit on the floor with the others," she said, so I did, puzzling over what she had asked. It hit me that she meant the letters, UCA. She'd asked if I were an undercover agent. I started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" 

I flinched at the deep voice. The GBI agent closest to me, who had spoken, was male. "Nothing, sir," I said, keeping my eyes down. I tried to sit, but everything hurt and the painkillers were wearing off. I wanted to curl up on my side, but that would cause me more problems, I thought, so I fidgeted, and that made them watch me. With every movement I felt cloth over what must be welts on my back, and there were deep aches in my body from where I had been tied, been used. My shoulders and hips were starting to feel stiff. The pen I'd clipped inside the polo shirt was still a cool counterpoint.

After an hour, some of the people started complaining that they were hungry. A few asked to go to the bathroom, and were told to wait until there was an agent free to escort them. A couple of times I was told to sit still, and I tried to obey. Finally, as a distraction, I uncapped the pen. It had nothing to say to me, and I rubbed the end of it over my eyebrow, where it caught on nothing. The rings were gone, my hair was gone, Brian had gone right past me, and now even the equations were gone. My head was empty. Dead Guy was gone, and I couldn't even visualize the black expanse. 

I don't know how long I sat, looking at the point of the pen and cataloging the pain as it got worse, interrupted only twice by the sound of sirens, which was probably Fowler and Angie being taken to the hospital. Eventually I became aware that the other people were getting up from the chairs and the floor, shuffling to the door. Someone poked me with the toe of their boot. "Get up." The voice was male.

"Yes, sir." I tried to get to my feet, but I couldn't. I'd been sitting long enough, and the ibuprofen had worn off completely, and swelling must have set in on my joints. I was stiff and could barely move. A hand reached to help me up, gripping me under the armpit, and I yelled in pain. It let go, and I fell forward on my hands and knees, wincing as the fabric of my shirt rode up, afraid of being punished. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try sir."

"Oh, my God, what happened to you?" I felt him pull up my shirt. "Oh, my God," he said again. "Medical assistance," he said. "Reception area."

A few moments later I was surrounded by people, touched by efficient hands, but they were male and I couldn't answer when they asked what had happened. I flinched away from them, saying, "Sorry, sir," until a voice ordered me to be still. "Yes, sir," I said, and forced myself to do as they asked. Two of them helped me to my feet and out the door, toward an ambulance. 

"Let's get your shirt off," someone said, but I couldn't raise my arms. 

"You can cut it off, sir" I said, wanting it gone, while part of me hoped I wouldn't be punished for ruining new clothes, the first clothes I'd had in days. 

I heard the scissors cutting behind me, and swearing as he opened it up. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know, sir," I said. It was the truth. I didn't really remember. The shirt slid off my arms and landed on the asphalt of the parking lot. I could see the pen lying there.

"How can you not know? It looks like someone beat you." I flinched as gloved hands inspected the welts. "Give me a hand here!" he called. Someone came over, and they brought down a gurney while I stood to the side. "Rules," the guy said. "We need to strap you down

It was the last thing I wanted, but I kept my eyes down and said, "Yes, sir." 

"You have got to stop with that sir business. It's creepy."

"Yes, sir."

I let my foot fall on the shirt as I stepped toward the gurney. They strapped me on, and I didn't know what to do, other than let them.

They loaded me into the back of the ambulance and stowed the gurney to the left. "Do you know your name?"

"Yes, sir."

He waited, but I didn't say anything else. "Well, what's your name?" He sounded impatient, and I was afraid he would hit me.

"Lars Dahl, sir."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Yes, sir. It's Wednesday," I added, before he could get annoyed.

A woman's voice came from the back of the truck. I thought it was the GBI agent. "Hey, do you have that tall guy in here?"

"This guy's about six four," the EMT said.

I felt the truck shift as someone else climbed in. "Yep, that's him," she said, jumped down and yelled, "I found the guy that ID'ed Grissom." 

I heard footsteps run up to the truck, felt it shift as someone else called through the door, "You got a name on him?"

"Lars," the EMT said. "What's your last name again?" I told him, and he repeated it.

"We found Lars Dahl!" the new voice yelled. 

This started a commotion, with the EMT keeping everyone out of the ambulance, until a voice said, "I was working with him up in North Carolina. Is he okay? What happened to him?" It was Brian. I felt a rush through my body, sweat stinging the bare welts and cooling rapidly, making me shiver. Why did he care? What would he say to me?

"He won't say what happened, but he's been beaten, maybe whipped, it looks like. And he keeps calling me sir."

"He knows me. Let me talk to him. Please," Brian added. "It's important." Brian was next to me in a moment. "Jesus, Lars, what did they do to you?" I raised my head to look at him, and his eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus, I didn't even recognize you. I walked right by you. Does he have to be strapped down?" He started to reach for me, and I could see his fingertips shaking, but he checked himself. The EMT was right there, and there were probably other agents looking in at the door. I wasn't afraid of him, though, and that was good. Maybe it was a side-effect of putting him in the pentagram.

The EMT answered, "It's procedure. Safety. We've got them loose enough that they shouldn't aggravate the bruises."

"Okay," Brian said, and turned back to me. "I can see they cut your hair. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know for sure. They gave me a lot of Intensity." Brian shut his eyes, and I said, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Me, too. How badly are you hurt? Did they—?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

"Yes." I wanted to say that I was sorry again, but I didn't want to give the EMT any ideas, so I shut my eyes. "They fucked with my head, too."

"What did they do?"

"I don't know." Brian didn't say anything, and I opened my eyes. His were closed, a crease between his brows, and his jaw tight. "They filmed it," I said, and because it seemed important, I added, "I didn't ask for it." 

He took a deep breath, and I could see his eyes moving under the closed lids. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "I know. They need to get you to the hospital."

I did not want him to leave, did not want to be left alone with strange men. I felt sweat sting the welts again, and couldn't stop myself from making a noise.

"What's wrong?" Brian asked.

The EMT answered. "He's hurtin', and I don't think anyone will object if I give him morphine. Which I will do if you'll get out of the way."

While the EMT rummaged, Brian sat on the other stretcher. He said, "I should go." His voice seemed strained. "We'll have someone take a statement at the hospital, when you're feeling better." He sounded distant, and I thought this was probably the last time I'd see him, so I opened my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said again. I heard my voice break. He hadn't left. That had to mean something.

"Yeah, you were a dumbass to come down here on your own."

"Is Angie okay?"

"They took her to the hospital. Since you told the GBI agent what the drug was, they knew to get her on a respirator right away." I couldn't read his expression

I was about to ask about Turner, about Blue, but the EMT straightened up, holding a needle.

Everything went out of my head. "No, please, sir!" I think I said, and jerked away, but I was tied down, and fighting made the straps dig in. I started to scream from the pain and from the fear of it starting all over again. "No more! Please, sir, just tell me what you want. You don't need the drugs." But they wouldn't tell me what to do, and there were new voices and more hands that only tried to hold me down, so I fought, and it hurt, and I screamed until Brian's voice cut through.

"Stop it, Lars! And I mean now!" Every tone was command, and I silenced myself. In a quieter voice he said, "Can you reach your zipper and lower your pants?" I couldn't think of why he wanted me to do that. He wasn't going to fuck me in the ambulance with strangers holding my legs, but the straps were loose enough that I could reach under myself to unbutton and unzip the chinos. I tried to push them down, but the band of the underwear burned as it dragged across my ass, and I heard Brian say, "Jesus!" again, then, "Go ahead."

I screamed at the prick of the needle and started to fight against the straps again. He'd betrayed me, I thought, but then he was in my face. "Lars! Come on, man, calm down. It's morphine, for the pain. Trust me, damn it! What did they do to you?"

I couldn't tell him because, if he was asking, then he hadn't seen any of the film clips, but it would come. He would see them. Everyone he worked with would see them. "I'm sorry, officer." I said. 

He was still angry, I could tell, and he didn't talk at all for a few moments. I opened my eyes, to make sure I hadn't dreamed him, and he was there, sitting on the opposite stretcher, still in his body armor, DEA baseball cap beside him leaning his elbows on his thighs. He rested his forehead on his hands, which were clasped like he was praying. Maybe he was. 

I couldn't take my eyes off him. He'd cut off the last of the bleached blond, leaving his hair light brown. There was dirt smeared on his forehead. After a minute he opened his eyes and looked back at me.

"You," he said, and I shut my eyes at the word, blocking the pressure behind my eyes, the thing that welled up from my chest into my head and wanted to come out. I watched the word move toward me, but it couldn't cross the sense of broken. Then he said, "Promise me you'll never take another God damned drug in your life."

I breathed a laugh, as if the Yes, sir tried to come out, but had deflated. If Brian punished me for it, I would take it, but I wouldn't lie to him. "I can't do that." I gave him a smile, or at least tried to, faking it for his sake. "Besides, if I did, it would be the morphine talking."

He snorted once, lips curving slightly, but it wasn't enough of a joke to break through his anger. "You put yourself in danger. Again. This is going to kill you one of these days." He turned his head away, clasping his hands so tight I could see the white ridges. 

I said, "You," answering Brian, too late, trying to bridge the gap from my side and failing. I tried to say it again, but trailed off as I let the morphine have me. Then I remembered the question I'd been trying to ask. "Turner?"

"We got him," I barely heard him say, "Blue's okay, too."

The EMT said, "You'll have to get out now. You can't ride back here."

Brian nodded. "I'll follow you." I could hear him breathing, angry. "Make sure they do a forensic exam." I felt the truck shift as he climbed out.

The ride was a haze of morphine. I heard the EMT calling for a rape exam nurse as they took me to the emergency room, and I wondered who else had been brought in. I didn't need rape nurse. They unstrapped me, and I stood holding the bed while they took off the pants and shoes, bagging them, and putting me into a hospital johnny. Brian was there, and stood just out of their way, saying nothing, but wearing his ID in a visible place. I lay face down on an exam table, and someone covered me with a warm blanket and left me and Brian alone. He sat in the chair next to me while we waited, and my mind made dreams out of the morphine that I'd never remember later. I tuned out the voices around me until I heard the curtain move aside, and a voice say, "Oh, good Lord, why couldn't they have told me it was a man? All right, honey, what happened to you? Stand up. I need to do a full body exam."

Her tone was brisk, and I could hear the snap of latex gloves. She pushed on my leg. "Did you hear me? Stand up." It was a woman, so I didn't feel compelled to obey, and I wasn't afraid. "I need to take a history," she said, "and look you over. Can you sit up, at least?"

"No." It felt good to be able to say it.

"Lars, come on," Brian said.

The nurse put her hand on my back to shake me, and even through the morphine it hurt enough for me to cry out. She pulled her hand away. "You don't want to be touched. That's fine for now, but I got a rape kit here, and we have to get evidence."

Oh, I thought, feeling stupid. The rape nurse was for me. Why did they do that? 

Brian said, "He's been beaten. Pull down the blanket and take a look."

I felt the blanket move, and then her voice, changed to something more like compassion, said, "Sweet Lord, have mercy, no wonder you don't want to be touched. How did this happen?"

I gave the only answer I could. "I was drugged and used in an S and M porno movie. I don't remember much about it."

"Did you enter the building voluntarily?"

"Yes, I was looking for a friend. They drugged me."

"I see," she said. I heard a pen scratching on paper. "When did this happen?"

"Friday."

She slammed down her pen. "And you're just getting here? I can't get evidence after five days."

I thanked the morphine for the false sense of serenity, and said, "I think the last time someone fucked me was last night."

"Well," she sighed, "let's stand you up and take a look. Who's your friend here?"

"Special Agent Hoechst, DEA," Brian said. "Mr. Dahl is a cooperating witness, and my superiors will have my head if anything happens to him. Come on, Lars, do what she says."

I stood, but tried not to look at her. She was dark, a bit on the heavy side, and her hands were sure as moved the johnny aside to examine my front. She clucked over the red marks from the clamps.

"Did you do this?" she asked, her fingers lying where my hip met my thigh. "Did you shave yourself?"

I heard a choked noise from Brian before I could answer. "No. They did that." She muttered while she noted things on the clipboard. She looked at my back and asked if I knew what they'd used on me, and sighed again when I said I didn't. When she finished the scan, she said, "I haven't done this on many men, but it works pretty much the same way." She fussed with something at the end of the exam table that I didn't recognize. "Can you lie down and put your feet in these? I have a kit here for forensic evidence, and I want to examine you for possible injury from your rape. If you want privacy for this, the Special Agent can wait outside."

"No." I said to all three ideas. 

"Honey, women do this at least once a year at the gynecologist. You're no less a man for a rape examination." 

I was tired of her yo-yoing back and forth between callous and compassionate, but at this, even through the morphine, I felt my fists ball and my shoulders tighten, and the pain from my shoulders fueled me. "You just looked at my back, and you want me to lie down on it? You stupid—"

"There is no call to talk to me like that!"

She was probably right. I was probably more mad at what happened to me than the fact the she was trying to adapt her script to a situation that was out of her experience. I didn't care. She was a woman, and I could yell at her, vent some of the frustration and pain on her. "You should hear yourself." I must have been loud, because by this point there were people working their way past the drawn curtain. 

The women I could ignore, and I opened my mouth to go off on the nurse again, but there was one man in a white coat who came in saying, "Is everything all right?"

I put my eyes to the floor before I even got a look at him. The fight in the ambulance had reminded me that it was better to obey, to not resist. "Yes, sir. No, sir."

That response brought dead silence, and then the nurse said, "He tells me he was held for five days, drugged, and—"

"I recognize the kit," the doctor said. "Why isn't there a social worker here? Where is law enforcement? Who is that?" I supposed he meant Brian, but before anyone could say anything, he walked over to me. "I'm Dr. Suarez. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Who brought you here?" The nurse started to read the ambulance information off my chart, but he said, "I'm asking him. What's your name?" I told him. "You came in by ambulance?"

"Yes, sir."

"Look up at me. Why do you keep calling me sir?"

I glanced up enough to see a goatee on a round face, eyes that seemed carefully kind, but that didn't matter. I could feel my heart speed up. My brain knew he wouldn't hurt me, but something inside screamed at me to just obey. "If I don't call you sir, I'm afraid you'll punish me." I heard a noise, and glanced over to see that one nurse had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Brian was behind me, so I didn't know how he took it. The other women in the room seemed uncomfortable.

"I think we can continue this without an audience." He held out his hand for the clipboard.

"But, I'm certified in gathering forensic evidence on rape victims," the nurse said, looking stubborn.

"Wait outside. I think I can be trusted not to contaminate evidence through an intake form," he said. Forensic evidence made sense to me, but rape victim? When she was gone, he said to Brian, "You can leave, too."

"No," we both said.

"Okay. Sit down, or lie down." I eased myself on the exam table, lying on my side so I would face the doctor and see Brian in the chair behind him. "Let me look at what she wrote." He was quiet for a few minutes. "Let's start over. What happened while you were held?"

"Turner said to break me," I said, flushing with shame when I realized he'd succeeded.

"And who is this Turner?"

The enormity of the answer was overwhelming. It was the first time I'd thought about Turner. I glanced at Brian, who nodded for me to go ahead, the soft lines around his eyes sharper than I'd ever seen them. I said, "He runs Turner Enterprises."

"And why would he want to break you?"

"Because I laughed at him. Demons hate it when you do that." Brian looked confused, but I didn't know how to explain it. 

"This Turner is a demon?" The doctor put the pen down to look at me.

"No, sir. It was something I did in my head to keep me—" I didn't know how to finish the sentence. Sane wasn't the right word.

"Okay, let's step back," said the doctor. "Do you think they broke you?" 

"Yes, sir." Brian looked up at that, looked right in my eyes and shook his head. I took it into myself, that no.

"Why do you think they succeeded?"

I tried to make it clinical. I tried to convince myself the doctor wouldn't hurt me if I got it wrong, the words came out in fits and starts. "I've been conditioned to obey men, but not, not women. I'm afraid you'll punish me, whip me, if I don't." I didn't even look at Brian. I was shaking with the effort of saying it.

"You're afraid of me?"

"Yes, sir." It was a relief to say it. My voice didn't shake.

"You know," said the doctor, "they didn't cover this kind of thing in medical school." I watched as he rubbed his forehead. "Okay, I'm going to tell you what I need you to do in order to examine you. You need to answer my questions truthfully. I don't want you to try to give me the answers you think I want to hear. Understood?"

His voice was measured, and I could feel some of the knots in my shoulders start to loosen. "Yes, sir." 

He snorted. "I don't know if I like hearing that, or not. You military?"

I couldn't control a snort of laughter as I said, "No, sir."

"Why is that funny? You have the hair for it."

I spoke for Brian, as much as to the doctor. "This is part of what they did to me, sir. They cut off my hair."

"To break you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What else did they do?"

"They took out all my piercings, sir."

"How many did you have?"

I had to stop and count. "Twenty-three, sir."

He blinked. "So, how did they think this would break you?"

"To strip me down to nothing, sir." I looked at Brian. His face was a mask, but I could see his chest moving, breathing deeply. Those were the words the Sergeant had used. "They also controlled when I ate and slept. It's standard mind control techniques."

"How do you know that?"

"I learned it in a psychology course, sir."

Brian cleared his throat. "Bare bones reprogramming techniques. The FBI briefed us on it when I told them what you said about Blue."

The doctor didn't say anything for a few moments. "Okay, I'm bringing in Nurse Johnson to do the forensic exam. I'm going to give you orders as to what we need you to do. Okay?"

"Yes, sir." I looked at Brian, but his eyes were shut tight, and the creases were bright with moisture.


	44. Here there be dragons

They did the forensic exam, although I still didn't have my head around the word rape. I hated it when they made me put my ass in the air while they poked and swiped. It hurt. They sprayed an anesthetic on my back, and it cooled things down, but they said there wasn't much they could do for me. Turner's people hadn't broken the skin much, so there wasn't anything to bandage, and even the cuffs had been padded. They must have been planning for future movies. The bruises they gave me were bone-deep, but in the morphine haze I heard Dr. Suarez say it should heal.

Brian took notes and asked questions, none of which I remember. I had the impression that Suarez found him annoying.

When the social worker came in, she rehashed the doctor's questions, focusing on the hamburger they'd made of my back, and the "unwanted sexual intercourse," as she termed it when I told her to stop calling it rape. I could handle those. I couldn't make her understand that what I hated was how they'd fucked with my head, and the hair and piercings were the only part of it that showed. She didn't get it. 

After she left, Brian stood next to me, his back to the curtains and blocking the view as he ran his fingertips over my eyebrow, and smoothed down my cheek with the back of his hand. "I'll buy new rings, and I'll help you put them in."

I turned my face toward his fingers, venturing to kiss whatever part of him I could. He got it, understood what it meant to me. He wanted me, not some cleaned-up, sanitized version, but then, I wasn't sure who I was anymore. At least I wasn't afraid of him, even if I was afraid of what he would think of me when he knew what they'd done, what I'd done. Maybe we weren't broken. "You," I said, putting my teeth on his fingers.

"You," he said, shaking my head by moving the hand I was biting. There was a noise outside the curtain. "Let go, now," he said, and sat back in the chair as the social worker came back in. 

She was young, not much older than Blue, and darker than the forensic nurse, with a bright scarf over her hair. "We do have to do paperwork, I'm afraid," she said.

"I'll take care of it," Brian said.

"It's personal information, a lot of it." She looked at me, pointedly ignoring Brian's hand reaching for the clipboard.

"I'll take care of it," Brian repeated more forcefully. He was in full cop don't-fuck-with-me mode, but she pursed her lips and didn't take her eyes off me.

"Let him, please," I said.

"All right," she said after a pause, and gave him the forms and looked at me from under her head scarf, brows furrowed. She left and I listened to the scratch of a pen as Brian filled out paperwork.

He asked, "Middle initial?"

"M."

"What's it stand for?"

"Not even on morphine." I never told people my middle name.

He didn't push it. "Social?"

I didn't want to talk. "It's in my wallet."

"Lars, your wallet has probably been taken as evidence, if Turner still had it. Phone, too."

There was something in his voice when he mentioned the phone, but it was all I could do to recite my Social Security number.

Later: "You have health insurance?" 

"No."

There were a few more questions, and when we were done he found someone to take the clipboard and just sat in the chair, staying close to me. After what may have been a couple of hours, Brian finally went off for coffee, and now he'd been gone long enough that I was starting to wonder if he'd just been part of the morphine dreams. The drug was wearing off by the time I heard a hushed voice say, "Oh, man. Big guy like that?"

I heard the social worker's voice again, outside. "Do I need to quote statistics at you, officers? Ten to twenty percent of all men are sexually assaulted at some point in their lives. Most of them don't have the added humiliation of having it filmed and posted on the Internet. 

So, the cops were here. Where was Brian? Had he ever been here?

The social worker came in. The uniformed sheriff's deputies that followed her in looked embarrassed. They were a male and female pair, white. 

The man stepped up to where I lay curled on my side. "We understand you've been the victim of sexual assault." I managed to say nothing because he hadn't asked a question. I could hear what he was thinking: A big guy like me should be able to defend himself. "You were raped?" he asked. 

I didn't want it all reduced to one word they thought they could understand, but I had to answer. It took me a few seconds to realize I had an out. It was hard to do without Brian there, but I said, "Sir, there is already an investigation underway. The GBI, FBI, and DEA raided Turner Enterprises this afternoon."

The female cop spoke up. "If you were found in a raid, and sent to the hospital, how come none of the federal officers or GBI are here with you?"

Where was Brian? Maybe I'd hallucinated him, and if that were true, the real irony hit me. My situation, here in the hospital with nothing—no ID, no phone and no one I could call, since I'd never learned Brian's number and I couldn't imagine Professor Robinson taking kindly to being my emergency contact—all of this was an example of a failure of communication in an interagency project, and fodder for my dissertation. It also meant that Turner was right, and I had nothing and no one. Something broke open in me, and rose out of my throat before I knew what was happening. For the first time in five days, I laughed, so hard I fell over on the bed and slid off, ending up on my knees with my head on the floor. It wasn't that funny, but once the gates opened, everything, all of it, the absurdity of the porn dialog and the cartoons in Blue's room rolled through me and it was so much better than doing something stupid like crying. It was all so fucking funny. I heard the social worker calling my name, but it barely made a dent. The johnny sleeves fell down my arms and exposed my back and ass, and that was funny, too.

"What did you do to him?" Brian asked, coming through the curtain. I tried to get hold of myself, but then it struck me that he'd come in to find me howling on my knees in front of the cops, and must have assumed the worst and that amused me even more.

"I just asked him a question," the woman said, "and he started laughing."

I pushed myself back to sit on my heels. "Oh, thank God you're real. Sorry." I was upsetting the people who were trying to help me.

"No, I'm sorry. I got stuck on the phone making a preliminary report." Brian asked everyone to wait outside, and helped me to my feet, and then to sit down on the exam table.

"Lars," he sighed. I think he wasn't sure if I'd cracked completely. He ventured to touch my leg, fingers resting lightly by the carp's dorsal fin. "They did a number on you, huh?" His voice was soft, pitched so it wouldn't be heard by anyone else, and full of regret.

I didn't trust myself not to do something stupid that would compromise him, so I said, "You'd better go talk to those sheriffs. The hospital called them. I don't think they know anything about what happened today."

"We kept local law enforcement out of the loop," Brian said. "We think there's corruption."

"Can we keep them out of this? I don't think I want it. I don't even know who it was."

"You may not have a choice," Brian said. "Besides, they collected evidence, didn't they? You told me they filmed it. They can ID him from that."

Him? Not just one him, but several, I thought. I didn't know how to tell Brian, and it would be one more humiliation I didn't need. Big guy like that? would be what everyone said. "Please," I said. "I don't want to talk to any cops."

He nodded, and stepped out of the curtain with a long backward glance. "I'll be back."

I heard him outside, asking for a private space where he could talk with the officers. The social worker came back in. "Do you need anything?"

"Could you tell them I need horse doses of ibuprofen and Vicodin too. Morphine doesn't help with the swelling."

She raised her eyebrows, and said, "I'll see what I can do." She started to leave.

"Wait, please. Can I borrow a pen?"

She looked confused, but she handed me one, a cheap ballpoint. I tried it out on the palm of my hand. It would do. "Thanks."

I started on my left thigh, feeling the need to diagram what I thought probably happened in the run up to the raid on Turner's. What had the DEA done, or the FBI, and how did the GBI fit into it and feel about it? A corollary question was how Angie had gotten permission to participate. I kept track of specific questions on my arm, and drew the diagrams and preliminary equations on my thigh. I'd gotten pretty far into it when Dr. Suarez came in. He blinked, and in the space of that blink I felt myself flush and start to sweat. I pulled the Johnny down over the marks on my leg, put my hand over the list on my forearm, and ducked my head. "Sorry, sir. I was just thinking."

"I see." I glanced up to see if he was angry, whether I should prepare myself to be punished, and then cursed myself for even thinking about it. He was a doctor and I was in a hospital. I should feel safe . He cleared his throat. "I heard you asked for painkillers."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't usually give Vicodin to people who ask for it by name, but I think in this case, it's deserved. The bigger question is what to do with you."

"Sir?"

"Your injuries aren't bad enough to admit you, but I don't feel comfortable releasing you, so I'm transferring you to Psych for evaluation." My jaw locked, unable to open, to protest. He glanced at my covered thigh and my arm before he stuck out his hand, "Good luck, Mr. Dahl."

I shook it because I had to obey the implied order. As soon as he left, a big guy with "Transportation" on his T shirt came in with a wheel chair. The social worker followed him in with another nurse, who had pills in a cup. "He needs these first." The nurse handed them to me and left, and the social worker stepped forward with a plastic cup with a straw. "Ibuprofen and Oxycontin. Dr. Suarez doesn't like to mix Tylenol with the Motrin."

I took the pills, and she put another johnny over my back like a bathrobe to cover my ass, but I stopped as she led me to the wheelchair. "I don't want to go anywhere without Agent Hoechst."

"It's just for evaluation," she said, taking my hand and leading me forward.

"You'll tell Brian where I am?"

"Brian?"

"The guy that was with me. The DEA agent."

"Sure," she said, "now please just get in the chair. I put a pillow down, and one for your back, see?"

I sat down, holding the pen. They took me down corridors and up elevators, then through doors that required key card access. I fell asleep in a bed as the painkillers took over.

I woke in a room with only a bed and hospital table, needing to take a piss. It hurt less than expected to get up and find the small bathroom. There was no mirror or shower, but I splashed water on my face, scratched the day's growth of beard, and ran my hand over the short hair on my head, trying to get used to it. The door was locked, and there was no call button, which was weird. The one window was covered with a mesh, meant to be decorative, but serving really to keep the patients from breaking the glass. From what I could tell I was six floors up, overlooking a rooftop and trees in the near distance with straight gaps between them, indicating the grid of streets below.

I rested my head on the mesh, wondering where Brian was. I was hungry and thirsty, but my head was clearer than it had been in days. After a few moments I went back and sat on the bed. Something poked me, and I felt around to find the pen. I looked at it for a long moment, wondering whether it would be a bad idea to continue my notes, since writing on myself had probably been the final straw in Suarez sending me up here. I snorted. Talking about the pentagram and calling Turner a demon probably hadn't been a great move, either.

The door opened, and a man came in with a tray. "Breakfast."

My eyes went to the floor, and I cursed myself because I couldn't help it. Still, I must be doing better, because I wasn't afraid to ask him questions, even if I had to show respect. "Where am I, sir?" He named the hospital, but it didn't mean anything to me. I didn't know Atlanta very well. "Sir, why is the door locked?"

He must have been used to the crazy people. His answer was carefully neutral as he set the tray down on the bed table. "I guess they want to keep you from getting yourself in trouble." Then he added, "Your friend nearly got himself in trouble last night. I heard he darn near tore the heads off the night nurses when they wouldn't let him in."

"Brian? Where is he?" Then I caught myself and added, "Sir."

The man blinked, and the deep wrinkles in his dark face got deeper. I couldn't tell if he was amused or scowling. "I wouldn't know."

He left and I looked at the tray, wondering why they wouldn't let Brian in. There was a paper placemat under the plate, and I pulled it out carefully to use later. I ate and drank everything, industrial and tasteless as it was, and it helped. 

I pushed the tray aside and brought up the placemat, and went to work, copying over and refining the ideas on my thigh, then expanding from them, taking into account the fact that Brian stayed all night, creating equations that I could plug the variables into when I found out what had really happened, until the door opened again. A pair of doctors came in, one male, one female. "Mr. Dahl," said the woman, "I'm Dr. Tarbox, and this is Dr. Wright. How are you this morning?"

"Better," I said, looking at her so I wouldn't see the man. She was middle aged, middle weight, barely going gray. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he had a silver beard. "Painkillers would be nice, but it's not as bad as it was."

The man said, "We understand you've been through a traumatic experience." 

My eyes dropped, and I fought the urge to push the table away so that I could kneel if asked. "Some might say that, sir." It felt like a victory not to say yes.

"Mr. Dahl, would it be better if I asked the questions?" Dr. Tarbox asked. I looked up at her and nodded. "We have some notes from Dr. Suarez from last night, but can you tell us what happened to you? Do you know why you're here?"

"I probably said some things while under the influence. I'm fine."

She glanced at the man, and he said, "Please stand."

"Yes, sir," I said, and was on my feet before I thought about it.

"You had to obey him," Dr. Tarbox said. "How does that make you feel?"

I looked up at her. "Pissed off. How would you like not having control over something like that?" It wasn't until her question, until I said it, that I realized just how angry I was. There was a well of rage that I could feel in my feet as they flexed against the cold tile of the floor. I put my head down and took a breath, feeling the wave of it pass up through tensed muscles, up my legs and through my body. The ache in my back, in my shoulder joints gave me a mental image of black wings, and I wanted to open my mouth and howl, to take off, to fly, to go screaming down at Turner with clawed feet and tear him apart.

"Mr. Dahl," she said, "are you okay?"

At the sound of her voice the image broke and I laughed, once. It may have even sounded like, Hah! So much for thinking I was clear headed. For the first time, I wondered how I could ever go out into the world in the state I was in. "Where's Agent Hoechst?"

"Who?"

"The DEA agent who was with me in the Emergency Room. Why didn't you let him come in here?"

The doctors looked at each other, and Tarbox cleared her throat. "Why was a DEA agent with you?"

I grabbed onto the words Brian had used in the ambulance. "I'm a cooperating witness."

"To what?"

"There's a guy named Shad Turner—" I started.

"The demon?" asked Dr. Wright, looking at his notes.

"Yes, sir," I said, dropping my eyes.

Dr. Tarbox broke in. "It's all right, Mr. Dahl. Just tell us what you're supposedly a witness to."

"I don't know how much I'm supposed to talk about this. Where's Brian?"

"Brian?" said Dr. Wright. "You're on a first name basis with this officer—" He paused and looked at me.

"Hoechst, sir." I had the feeling I'd fucked up, but I didn't know why, but their attitude was pissing me off.

"What is your relationship with this Brian?" Dr. Tarbox asked.

"I told you, I'm a cooperating witness—"

Dr. Wright interrupted. "I doubt that agents assigned to cases spend the night in a waiting room for a witness who is well protected."

Damn. He'd stayed all night, and they wouldn't let him see me. It pissed me off more.

"You're safe here, right?" Dr. Wright said, like he was trying to sound reassuring.

"Yes, sir," I said, because he expected it, but I didn't feel safe. There was a stretch across my back, and sound in my head of wings unfolding, a sense of talons flexing against the cold tile of the floor. They were talking, but I ignored them.

"You looked frightened when I mentioned he'd spent the night, and Miss Edgars, the social worker, she had concerns."

"The local police didn't know anything about a raid on a business, and certainly not one that involved drugs or pornography. So, I have to ask you again, what is your relationship with this Brian Hoechst?" She stumbled over pronouncing his last name, reading it from her clipboard.

I didn't answer, had barely heard her. I was flexing my neck against the pain in my shoulders, the weight of the wings.

Dr. Wright spoke. "Do you have a relationship beyond cooperating witness?"

Damn it. "Yes, sir," I said, my voice quiet, but the answer ringing through my head. They were smart. They were going to catch me, make me out Brian. I needed to pay attention, and tried to fold the wings again. 

Dr. Tarbox said, "Did he cause your injuries? Did he condition you?"

It took a full five seconds for the question to sink in. When it did, my wings snapped out, and the word came like fire out of my mouth. " _ **What**_?" She took a step back, head recoiling as if my shout had hurt her. I growled, somewhere deep in a long throat. "No. Fuck, no. Hell, no."

Dr. Wright stepped toward me, opening his mouth, but Dr. Tarbox waved him back. "You don't have to protect him," she said, taking a breath and keeping her voice calm. "You're safe in here."

I took a breath, folded the wings, banked the fire and said as calmly as I could, "I am not saying another word to you until you call the GBI, the FBI, and the DEA and get independent confirmation of the raid on Turner Enterprises."

"Mr. Dahl, we're just trying to help you," she said.

"Fuck off."

"Calm down, Mr. Dahl."

Those words never work, but I knew I was losing sanity points here. "The room Turner held me in was much like this," I said, my voice low and each word coming slowly out of my mouth as if I thought they were stupid, "except I didn't even get a johnny to wear. I said I wouldn't talk to you again until you called the damn feds. Shadrach Turner. Turner Enterprises. Since you don't believe me or DEA Agent Hoechst, start at the FBI switchboard." I shucked the second johnny, turned my bare, bruised back on them, and beat my wings once, hard, to blow them out of the room.

I was aware that most people didn't do that sort of thing.


	45. In which Lars reports

I stood leaning my head on the cold metal covering the window, counting the ways I was fucked. If I thought I could turn myself into a dragon—or whatever it was that had wings and feared nothing—if I thought it was real, I was crazy, but if I knew I was crazy, did that earn me sanity points? 

All the occult shit I had gotten into years back was just an exercise in imagination, and people went batshit when they couldn't tell the difference. But it worked if you knew what you were doing. The pentagram had protected me until the Intensity took over, and putting Brian there kept him separate from the conditioning they'd given me. Hack your own damn brain, was my philosophy, and use whatever tools you need. I rubbed my thigh where the carp swam. I had almost put a dragon there, but at the last minute decided I wanted a survivor, not a destroyer, and carp knew how to survive. Search and Destroy was tattooed on my shoulder, over the red and black sun face. It was there if I needed it, but I needed more to maintain control so that my new keepers wouldn't think I had to be here.

The door opened behind me, and I glanced back just enough to see a tall, black guy in scrubs closing the door behind him. "I'm Jason," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm one of the nurses. I came to see about your back." He held up a shallow bucked that looked like it had bandages.

I decided to experiment with the dragon. Before turning around, I flexed my wings and folded them. I turned and looked him in the eye. "About time."

He raised his eyebrows. "They told me to expect you to call me sir and be scared."

I had a twinge, even through the dragon, but I said, "I'm working on it." 

"I was kind of looking forward to it. No one calls a male nurse sir." He didn't look like the type to smile a lot, but he looked amused. "Now, you want to lie down or stand up?"

I froze at being given a choice, at the kindness in his tone. I dropped my eyes. "Please, what works best for you?" I couldn't be angry at this guy, and I couldn't keep it up. The images of wing and claw dissipated, and I wasn't scared so much of punishment, but of disappointing him. Maybe that was progress.

"Why don't you lie down," he said, and put the carrier on the bed table. He whistled. "I'm going to have to touch you, okay? Your chart says they used a topical anesthetic, but those bruises have to be pretty deep. I've got the painkillers Dr. Suarez prescribed, but Dr. Wright over-ruled the Oxycontin. When he wasn't looking, Dr. Tarbox wrote it back in." I felt his gloved fingers, and it ached where he touched, but his voice was soothing. "Let me know if I hurt you. There's a few abrasions, no bleeding, so there's not much I can do, but you're gong to turn some spectacular colors. The only parts of your skin that aren't purple are red. Okay, this is going to smell funny," he said, and I heard the noise of him flipping open a cap. 

Whatever it was ticked my nose enough to make me sneeze. "Bless you," he said, his fingers moving through something slick on my back that cooled it down and soaked into the ache. "I think your tattoo will survive. What does it say? Search and Destroy. Hmm." I hissed and arched back as his fingers started probing over the subdermal. "What is that?"

"Stop it," I said. I wasn't going to talk about the pentagram.

"Okay. It's all right. Sorry if I hurt you." I couldn't feel his hands any more. "Your, uh, backside is pretty beat up, too. Can I rub some of this on it?"

"Yes, sir." Damn, this yo-yoing in my head was hard. I had to be pissed off to be the dragon, and after so many days of drugs, beatings, poor fucked up Blue, and then hospital assholes, I could feel myself ache for his kindness, even if it was professional. He continued to talk, saying nothing, really, but in a voice well-practiced to sooth. I almost pushed my hips up against his touch, felt the stirrings of an erection, but that set off a memory in my head, something through the drug haze of big hands on my ass, making the bruises hurt, and a voice saying, Act like you want me to fuck you, there's a good boy, and making me want it. Then I heard my own voice in my head talking to the two doctors. The room they held me in was much like this. It was happening all over again. This was the part where they sent in someone to be nice, to make me feel better, so I would trust them. I couldn't let them know I knew what they were doing, but no way were they going to get away with it.

But I was angry, and that was good.

I sat up without saying anything, and the guy backed away and asked, "We're done, then?"

"Jason, right?" I asked, and he nodded. "Can I get out of this room? Get a shower and something more like regular clothes?"

"Sure." Jason didn't take his eyes off me while he reached for a towel to wipe off his hands. "You want your medications?"

"Let me see them." He handed me the little paper cup. There were three pills in it. I recognized the Oxycontin, and the big oval was probably prescription-level ibuprofen, but I couldn't be sure. The third one I didn't recognize at all, and that just fueled the anger. I handed them back, and said, "No, thanks," but it was a dragon voice deep in my throat that spoke. They'd just tried to drug me, and maybe it wasn't Fowler's needles, but it was close enough. I had enough problems in my head without more people giving me mystery drugs.

"Okay," he said. "Let me drop this stuff off, and we'll see about getting you a shower. I'll get this out of your way," he said, picking up the breakfast tray. "Oh," he said, seeing the placemat I'd been writing on. He started to set the tray down to pick it up, but I put my hand on it, and said nothing. "Okay," he said again, in a placating tone. "Back in a bit."

I waited, just sitting on the bed, trying to figure out how to get out of here without clothes, or ID. I had nothing and no one—no one except maybe Brian out there somewhere.

I heard the key in the lock as Jason came back in, but I tuned out his talk, and let him lead me down the hall to a shower. Shampoo, soap, a small tube of shaving cream and a safety razor were piled on a towel and facecloth. Some cloth was folded next to them, solid blue and solid yellow, faded with washing. Jason never left the room as I showered and shaved by touch, but having a male nurse pretend not to watch was far easier to deal with than the cameras catching my every moan. I scrubbed off the ink on my thigh and arm. I didn't try to wash my back, but the feel of my hands on my neck and feet, my fingers on my face as I shaved, reminded me of my real shape. I am not a dragon, but I play one when pissed off. I didn't laugh at my own joke, because I didn't want Jason to ask what was funny.

I ignored him as I dried myself on the inadequate towel, and unfolded the cloth. I was another johnny and a pair of draw-string pants, terry slippers in yellow. The pants were too short, but that was no surprise. What surprised me is that he didn't lead me back to the room. He showed me into a room with several chairs and a low, central table. "Group therapy?" I asked.

"No, no," Jason said. "There's some folks here to see you. Dr. Wright's getting them now. Why don't you sit down?" He stepped inside the door, but didn't close it.

I shook my head, but walked over to the window. It had meshwork, too, but the grid was more open and I could see what looked like forest land not too far away. I wished the window opened and I could fly, land in the woods, and deal with all of this on my own. 

"Lars?" It was Brian. "Are you okay?"

I turned around. "Yeah, I'm okay." He looked like hell, unshaven with dark circles under his eyes. I thought that I'd never kissed him when his beard was that rough, and wondered what it would feel like. I wondered what he smelled like, if he'd eaten, whether the slight twitch in his jaw was from coffee or emotion. 

I kept my own face blank. Dr. Wright was standing in the doorway behind Brian, watching me, and Dr. Tarbox was already in the room, watching from another angle where she could see Brian's face. It was more fuel for the dragon's fire. Brian put a bag on the low table, a clear ziplock with my wallet and keys, but no cell phone in it. I didn't reach for them, but said, "Thanks. You told me you got Turner, right?"

"We got him," said another voice. I looked to see a man in a suit coming into the room. "Brad Tolliver, Assistant Special Agent in charge of the DEA's Atlanta field office." He gestured out the door, where I could see two other people in suits coming in, a heavyset, Black man and a middle aged white woman. "With me are Special Agent Leslie of the FBI, and Special Agent Jackson of the GBI. We came to thank you in person."

I wasn't sure which name belonged to who, or what he was thanking me for, but I shook Tolliver's extended hand and said, "You're welcome, I guess." His grip was firm, and he looked like a black-haired version of Brian, plus ten or so years. I met his gaze, anger at the doctors working to help me keep my head up.

"I'm sorry you got caught up in this, but your testimony is going to be extremely helpful. We've arranged a hotel room for you until you're able to drive yourself back up to North Carolina, but we'll need to take a full statement." He turned to Dr. Wright. "He can go, can't he?"

"We'd like to do an evaluation," Dr. Tarbox said. "He wouldn't talk to us until we'd confirmed with you."

"Evaluation for what?" Tolliver asked. "I'm sure there's a risk of PTSD, but surely he doesn't need to be confined here. He's had quite enough of that at the hands of Shadrach Turner." Tolliver sounded as if there was no doubt I should be leaving, and that he wouldn't put up with much delay.

"It's more than that," Dr. Wright said. He looked at me. "Sit down."

Dragon smoke came out my nose. "I'd rather stand, thank you."

He blinked. "What happened since this morning?" He turned to Brian and Tolliver. "This morning he said he was conditioned to obey men."

"I did some cognitive therapy on myself," I said. "They hadn't had much time to work on me, and I thought my way out of it."

Wright blinked again, and Brian said, "Mr. Dahl is a published author in political psychology and theoretical political science." I wondered if anyone else could hear the pride I heard in his voice.

"But, Dr. Suarez's notes—" Dr. Tarbox started.

"What about them?" I asked.

"It's of concern that you were calling this Mr. Turner a demon, and talking about hiding in pentagrams."

Thinking I was a dragon wasn't any better, but it was equally functional for the moment. I raised my wings and looked down at her. "Dr. Tarbox, I had been drugged for the better part of five days, and on top of that had been injected with morphine for pain. Don't tell me you've never heard people say weird things under the influence." She started to protest again, but I turned to Tolliver. "The good doctors here came to the conclusion that Special Agent Hoechst was the one that beat me."

I barely glanced at Brian, but his mask was firmly in place. "So that's why they wouldn't let me in?"

I nodded. 

"I see," said Tolliver, a slight disgust on his face. "Of all the stupid…. Mr. Dahl, do you want to stay here?"

"No, sir," I said, not because I was compelled to, but because he was taking command of the situation, and I was happy to be along for the ride.

He looked at the doctors. "Can you please process the paperwork for his release from this institution?"

"Of course," said Dr. Wright, while Dr. Tarbox said, "I'd like to be able to at least ask Mr. Dahl a few questions."

I looked at Tolliver, who looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I said, "I don't have any clothes. If someone could run to a mall or something?"

"Perhaps we could talk while you wait for that?" Tarbox said, not giving up.

Brian said, "What size are you?"

"Thirty-two by thirty-six jeans, medium T-shirt. Black, please." I leaned down to the bag that held my wallet, took it out, and handed Brian all the cash in it, vaguely surprised that it was still there. "Converse high tops, size twelve." There was no way I could get new boots without trying them on.

"Black?" Brian asked, the first hint of a smile on his face. I smirked back and he turned to go.

"Wait," said Tolliver. He turned to Dr. Tarbox. "What do you want to ask him?"

"I want to ask him about what happened to him, how he feels about it, and maybe help him find some coping mechanisms."

"Seems like he's coping fine to me."

"It's okay," I said. "Why don't we kill two birds and make this my preliminary statement?"

Tolliver looked over to the agents hovering at the door. "That all right with you?" 

His question seemed to break a tension I hadn't noticed before. "I have a minidisk recorder in here somewhere," said the woman, stepping into the room and looking into her purse like someone's mom fetching a hankie. "I can drop digital copies onto your computers before I take it back to the FBI field office."

Brian said, "Perhaps we'll want someone from the DeKalb County Sheriff's office, too. I spoke to a couple of deputies last night. There may be rape charges, as well." There was an edge in his voice, but Tolliver nodded, and Brian said, "I'll call them for you. Then I can go get Mr. Dahl some street clothes, and come back and nap on one of the couches out here." 

"Ibuprofen, too," I said. He nodded and left. I was relieved. I didn't think either one of us would have been able to hold it together through the whole story if we were both in the room.

There was a Sheriff's deputy there in five minutes. We sat around the table, and I started talking, leaving out no detail of what they did, and including no detail of what I had done in my head to get through it. I didn't tell them what I'd done to get over it. I spoke through the fire in my throat, feeding it with the anger so that my words could come out cold. It was funny, in a way, because the agents asked questions based on their cases for kidnapping (FBI Special Agent Spring Leslie, who looked like a matron and asked questions that showed a good mind), drugs (Brad Tolliver of the DEA, who was used to being in charge), or the production of pornography (Jim Jackson of the GBI, who was smart and never let Tolliver steamroll him). I never got the deputy's name, and he simply took notes the whole time. Peppered through it were Dr. Tarbox's questions about how I felt about it all, most of which I answered with a succinct, "Pissed off." It was very strange, like I was having to narrate the entire season of a TV show.

It also took several hours. When we broke for lunch, Brian was asleep on the couch, shopping bags at his feet. Dr. Tarbox picked them up and led me back to my room herself, waiting outside while I changed into real clothes. Brian had even found black boxer briefs, and remembered to get me socks. The T-shirt fit fine, but I had a mental image of the wings on my back making holes for themselves so they could stretch. It didn't feel great to have fabric pressing on the bruises, but clothes made me feel more like myself than the damn, pastel johnny. I took four ibuprofen using water from the sink, although it hurt to bend down. The placemat with my notes was still there, and I put it in the bag with the extra underwear. When I opened the door to go back to the room, the doctor was still waiting. "May I come in?"

"I'm not sure I want to talk to you without our law enforcement friends."

"Please. This is a doctor-patient issue."

"I didn't ask to have you as my doctor," I said, but I stepped back into the room and let her in.

She closed the door. "I owe you an apology."

"For?" I smiled enough to show fangs. I was going to make her say it.

She fingered the ID and the keys hanging from a lanyard around her neck and looked at my shoes. "I accused the DEA agent of being your sadistic boyfriend. I had no idea what had happened to you. I'm sorry."

"Okay," I said, moving toward the door, but she didn't step aside.

She looked up at me. Her face was matronly, almost patrician, but her voice seemed to show genuine concern. "Mr. Dahl, you know you aren't well, right? You're doing a good job holding it together, but no one goes through what you're describing without some effects."

My wings flexed, and my voice went deep in my throat. "Are you going to try to keep me here?"

She shook her head. "Do you think he can take care of you? Help you? Know when he can't do it himself and get help for both of you? You two do have a relationship, right?"

I could feel the color drain from my face. "What makes you say that?"

"You admitted as much this morning when Dr. Wright asked, and I am a psychiatrist, and it's part of my job to observe people."

I wasn't giving her an inch. I cocked my head at her, as if ready to aim a jet of flame. "It really isn't your business."

"No," she sighed, "I suppose it's not, but if you do, and from what I've heard this morning, his behavior last night can be seen in a different light. I thought he was trying to get you out to protect himself from the consequences of his actions."

"What do you think now?" I asked.

She put her hand on the door, and looked away before she answered. "He loves you," she said, and left.

I waited a few moments to let that sink in before going back down the hall to lunch and more questions. Brian was still passed out on the couch, but I didn't let myself do more than glance at him. Even so, I smiled to myself, all fangs and smoke. We had a certified diagnosis.


	46. Knights and Dragons

"We're done?" asked Jackson, closing his notebook with a snap that echoed the tension in his voice. For someone who worked on pornography cases, he'd had a hard time listening to me, got more angry at the end, when I described what I could remember about the gay sex, and then had cleared his throat to cover some other reaction when I described the room they'd given Blue. Maybe he had a daughter into ponies. If he did, he wouldn't be able to look at them the same way again.

Dr. Tarbox had kept an expression of mild interest through all of it, even through the exorcism. The deputy never showed any sign that he was more than a robot in a uniform, taking notes. Leslie, of the FBI, had been professional, but did not hide her horror and disgust at some of the worst of it, and had even said she was sorry. She picked up the minidisk recorder and put it in her purse, then looked at Jackson. "Shall I follow you to your office so we can copy this for the GBI, or do you want a transcript?"

"I'll take a copy. Might be good if we do our own transcriptions to compare."

They left the room, working on logistics, and Tolliver followed them. Dr. Tarbox and I looked at each other. "Something you wanted to add?" I asked.

I heard a throat clear, and realized the deputy was still in the room. "I'll need you to sign the statement when it's done." He handed me a card from the Sheriff's office, with a number and name penciled on the back. "Do you know where you'll be staying?" I shook my head. "We have a couple of leads on the men who assaulted you, but we'll need your cooperation to press charges."

The thought shocked me for a moment. If I had those men, what would I do? I would play with them, like a cat, and make them suffer, roast them slowly. I hadn't thought I wanted to press charges, but the thought of them serving time for raping a guy? They wouldn't have the easiest time in prison. "Sure," I said, feeling a smile of pure evil on my face. The deputy looked surprised before he schooled his expression, so I got hold of myself. "I'll call you when I know where I'm staying." He nodded and left.

Dr. Tarbox was looking at me. "It's a mature thing to let the law handle it, rather than try to take revenge. It's a good step in dealing with the anger." She took a breath. "People can be very resilient. There's no reason you can't go back to a normal life, but some of this may come up in ways you least expect."

I didn't let my scorn show on my face. "Not news." And nothing about my life would be normal by her standards, anyway.

"Look, I don't know how you went from the subservience that everyone saw to this calm, collected—What, you're an academic, right?" I nodded. I had been, and I would be again. "It shows," she said, running her fingers over the lanyard around her neck. "It was a very dry and concise delivery. But you said everything made you angry, without ever looking angry. That, that look you gave the deputy about pressing charges was the most emotion I've seen on your face this afternoon. Please keep in mind that depression in men is often manifested as anger. Please watch yourself, and get help if you need it."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, but it was with the sly smirk of the dragon. Her brows furrowed slightly, as if she were trying to see something, but she gestured toward the door, so I walked out into the waiting area.

Brian was scrubbing his hands over his face where he sat on the couch, and the other agents and the deputy stood in a knot, working something out among them. Brian stood when he saw me, and I wanted to wrap my wings around him, twine my neck around his. I didn't want to have to be the dragon with him. I wanted to curl up at his feet with my head on his knee like a good boy. I wanted to kneel in front of him and let him use me, give him what I had learned. I wanted him to— I staggered, realizing I was about to go down on my knees. I closed my eyes and tried to get hold of my breathing, flexing my wings out for balance. This was crazy, but—crap, if the damn dragon kept me on my feet with my eyes off the floor, I wasn't going to fight it.

"Lars?" Brian said. I opened my eyes. "Are you okay?"

I shook it off, and for the first time, consciously lied to him. "It was a little rough." That was okay. Everyone knew that dragons were liars. "What about you? You look rough."

"Nothing a shower, shave and ten hours of sleep won't cure," he said, running his hand over his jaw. "You want to see Angie? We can do that, and then either get your car or go straight to the hotel. You need anything to eat?"

I needed to stretch my wings all the way and see the sky, but I just nodded.

"Angie?" Brian asked, picking up a dark bundle from the floor.

"Yeah, let's stop and see her."

A nurse I hadn't met walked over with papers for me to sign. I worried about the one that said I knew I was liable for all costs, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. Maybe I could use the money from Ricky's mother, since Plan 9 wasn't likely to open again. The nurse handed me my copies, and pamphlets titled Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Depression in Men without comment. I put them in the shopping bag with my placemat.

Brian interrupted the meeting with a hand on Tolliver's shoulder. Tolliver nodded, and walked us to the door, looking pointedly at the nurses' station. I heard the buzz and clunk of the electronic lock, and he pushed the door open and held it for us. There were elevators right outside, and Brian pushed the down button.

"Agent Hoechst," said Tolliver, holding the door mostly closed, but not letting it lock. "There was a cell phone found with Mr. Dahl's wallet and keys, a pre-paid one in your name."

Brian nodded, but his jaw jumped. "I gave it to him in case he needed to contact me while I was in the field in North Carolina."

"Some boys in the evidence office are trying to make sense of the text messages." Tolliver's face was a careful blank. "Times. One sent one says business in between two calls to your cell phone, and they were wondering out loud if it was business as opposed to pleasure."

The word landed heavy in the air, and I drew myself up to my full height, taller than I had ever been before, and narrowed my eyes. "Are you trying to imply something?"

"Mr. Dahl," Tolliver started, "Agent Hoechst has been a bit, well, more than attentive to a regular witness." 

"Look," I said, smoke wreathing the word. "I don't know what Brian's told you, and I don't know what will get him in trouble, but I made him as a cop the first time he walked into my club, and I wanted to know what he was after." Tolliver's eyebrows went up. "I'd also been working the door there for four years, and was getting tired of it. It was nice to have someone with a brain to talk to, and if we hadn't started hanging out, I probably would never have agreed to help. My closest friend was killed a few weeks ago, you may recall, thanks to Turner." Tolliver started to say something, but I kept going, licks of flame under every word. "If it screws up the case, get someone else to give me a ride, and I'll never talk to Brian again, but right now, he's pretty much the only friend I've got. I want a beer. I want a hamburger. I want to shoot the shit about anything but Shad Turner, and I damn sure want to hang out with someone I can trust not to drug me against my will, which, by the way, those doctors tried to do this morning."

Tolliver shook his head and whistled silently. "Agent Hoechst?"

Brian shrugged, but I could see the tension under it. He had unfolded the bundle. It was his body armor, and he folded it down the center as he talked. "Yeah, we hung out. I would have tried to, anyway, even if he hadn't blown my cover. As it was, it got me access to everything about Plan 9. You want to assign another agent, that's fine with me." He tucked the armor under his arm and looked at Tolliver. "I can go try to catch some sleep."

"It doesn't look good. Your behavior last night here in the hospital raised some eyebrows. Not to mention your reaction to the delays in getting the search warrants."

"Sir, it was my fault he'd gotten into this."

"No," I said. "I came down here on my own, looking for Blue." Tolliver cleared his throat, and I looked back at him. "Whatever. Just get someone to get me the hell out of here."

Tolliver looked at me for a long moment. I didn't hide my impatience, but I restrained myself. It wouldn't be good to torch a potential ally. "All right," he said, as an alarm started beeping. 

A nurse with an annoyed expression pushed the door off his foot and said, "In or out, please, sir."

Tolliver nodded. "All right, Agent Hoechst. Mr. Dahl."

The door closed behind him, and Brian pushed the down arrow for the elevator again. We got in without talking, and he took us down to the lobby. We stayed at least six feet apart while he bought flowers at the gift shop and got Angie's room number from the ancient woman behind the visitor's desk. I started back toward the elevators, and Brian touched my arm to guide me a different direction. I froze for a moment, and he paused, his hand on my arm. We looked at each other for a moment, and his thumb moved across my skin. The small touch almost pulled me out of the dragon, and I closed my eyes.

"It's this way, Lars. She's in a different building."

I shivered under his hand like a nervous horse, and he pulled away, the last touch given with pressure to guide me in the right direction. The elevator was crowded, and we stood on opposite sides, both watching the lighted numbers. I let him take the lead to Angie's room, and when we got there, nurses were busy, so we waited outside for a few moments. I fidgeted with the handle of the shopping bag, and he stood impassively, looking tired, but entirely in control. Cop mask.

If Brian looked like hell, Angie looked worse, even from a distance. I let Brian go in first. "Agent Grissom," he said.

"Agent Hoechst." Her voice sounded rough, but I remembered Brian saying something about them putting her on a respirator. "How's Lars? How's Blue?"

Crap, I thought. I hadn't even asked about Blue. Right. Dragons are selfish.

"Last I heard she was being held for questioning," Brian said, "but I've been in the hospital the whole time. I brought someone to see you."

She looked at me, confused for a moment, and I watched her realize who it was. "Oh, my God. Lars? You clean up pretty." She smiled, and I expected her to give me shit for the new look, but it was something else, a genuine happiness to see me. That was weird. She put her arms up. "Come here." Brian stood aside, and I leaned down to hug her, since it was what she wanted. "Thank God you're okay," she said, but when she squeezed I grunted at the pain and pulled back. 

She looked a little hurt, so I took one of her hands, but it was Brian who said, "They beat him." She looked over my face, as if searching for bruises, and Brian said, "His back."

"Why?"

It was Brian who answered again. "You know how they said they thought Turner was using his studios for pornography?"

She looked horrified. I cleared my throat, making way for words. "Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Sadism, too. I should have been in heaven." I heard Brian make a noise almost like a growl, but I ignored it. "So, um, you okay? I saw you go down." 

"How?"

"Closed circuit camera on the door. By the way, thanks for shooting that guy. Is he dead?" I looked at Brian.

He shook his head. "Not when they took him away."

"What guy?" she asked.

"You don't remember?" I asked, and Angie shook her head. "The guy that emptied a gun full of Ketamine darts to your neck. Enough of that crap makes you lose time."

She nodded. "The doctors said something about that. The last thing I remember was getting the okay to come along. Nobody told me I shot someone."

"Well, he shot back."

"Dart gun?" Angie asked. She reached up to touch the bandage on her neck.

"Yeah," I said. "He used it on me a couple of times, too."

Brian took me by the arm and turned me to face him. "They shot you with a dart gun like an animal?" he asked. Seeing the expression on his face, I was sorry Fowler wasn't nearby for Brian to finish him off.

"They were not nice people," I said. I turned to Angie, but not far enough to make him have to loosen his grip. "So how much did you lose?"

"Last thing I remember was the day before, like I said, getting permission to join the raid. Thanks, Brian."

"What did you do?" I asked him.

He let go of my arm. "I reminded the FBI that putting her on the case in the first place and not telling us she was married to one of the club owners had already violated their own rules, as well as ours. Angie agreed to take the outside job and watch the back doors. You don't remember?" 

She shook her head.

A voice came from the door. "Knock, knock."

"Mom!"

"We'll see you later," Brian said immediately.

"Wait," said Angie. "Mom, this is Lars Dahl. He helped Rick run Plan 9." I found myself first shaking hands with an older version of Angie, gray streaks in her straight, auburn hair. Ricky's mother-in-law, who grew flowers. Ricky had liked her. Ricky was gone. While my mind blanked out, she pulled me in for a hug, and I tried to contain another grunt of pain, but Angie was already saying, "Don't hug him."

"It's okay," I said, as she backed off looking confused. "Back injury. We should go. It's very nice to meet you." 

I backed toward the door as Brian introduced himself and said goodbye, but Angie wouldn't have it. "Mom, could you step outside for just a second, please. Work stuff." Her mother looked about to protest, but she nodded and left. "Close the door," Angie said. "I shot someone?"

"Um, yeah," I said. "He pulled the trank gun, and you probably couldn't tell what it was."

"You know who he was?"

"His name was Fowler," I said.

"The guy behind Intensity?" Brian asked.

"And a load of other things they shot me up with. I'm sorry he's not dead."

"He's why you freaked out about the needles?" Brian asked.

"Yeah." Didn't seem the time or place to bring up the blow job, but then something hit me. "How did you know about him?"

"Tell you later," Brian said. "Angie, I'm sorry you found out about it this way. Do you want me to send someone to talk to about it?"

Angie shook her head. "Three and half years of hardly even pulling my gun outside the firing range, and then I shoot two people in a month."

"Part of the job," Brian said. "You have it, you hope you don't have to use it, and you don't hesitate when you do."

"I know, I know." She sighed. "I'll be fine. Go on, you two. I haven't seen my mom since Ricky died. Don't say anything. She thinks I have a desk job."

"Mothers aren't stupid," Brian said, and I wondered what that meant.

We walked to the elevator, Brian still carrying the flowers. "You forgot something."

"Oh. Be right back."

I went on to the elevators, and a moment later, Brian ran up, looking panicked. "Jesus, don't do that. You scared me."

"What?" I pushed the down button.

"I didn't see you where I left you."

I turned a long neck to look at him, irritated. "What—am I a three year old? I can find an elevator on my own."

He swallowed something, and we got on the elevator when it came. There was no one else, which was good, because my wings needed to stretch. He said, "I guess I'm just—" He didn't know how to finish it. 

I waited a few seconds, and said, "I don't need a mother hen."

"The hell you don't," he muttered as the doors opened. He didn't look back to see if I followed as he walked to the exit. I could see the light, the sunshine, and see a flag moving in a breeze. I didn't run, but walked at a slow pace, letting anticipation build. Beyond the doors, I was free. It had only been a week, but it felt like longer. I stepped out through the sliding doors into the afternoon, hot enough, even in the late Fall. I found a patch of sunlight, and looked up. I felt like every scale on my body was gleaming, throwing off incandescent reflections.

A few seconds later I heard Brian next to me. "You're going to ruin that pasty Goth complexion."

All I could do was laugh, and dream of flight.

He let me stand for a few minutes. "Your car is probably at an impound lot. Mine's over in the garage. What do you want to do first?"

I growled, but pulled myself together. "I wasn't kidding about a hamburger and a beer."

"Let's do it, then. There's a place next to the hotel. Maybe we can get your car tomorrow."

He let me soak up the sun for a few minutes before walking to the parking garage. We didn't talk during the ride, which was fine with me, since I'd just narrated what I could remember of five days of my life. The hotel was generic, as was the chain bar and grill next door where we went first. Brian put his gun in the trunk, but they still looked at Brian twice wearing a T-shirt and baseball hat with DEA in large letters. We sat near a television and watched without talking. After we'd eaten and I ordered a second beer, I realized the Brian wasn't just looking at the TV, he was completely focused on it, not looking at me at all. I watched grown men try to hit balls with bats and run around in circles. It didn't mean much to me, but when Brian turned his hat backwards and yelled, "Oh, come on. He had to be safe!" I had had enough.

I finished the beer quickly, and touched his arm to get his attention. "I need to go crash, and so do you."

He nodded, drained his tea, and signaled for the bill, and I let him pay. I'd given him all my money for the clothes, anyway. We walked back to the hotel, and he got me my room key from the desk, then guided me into the elevator and then to the door. At the door, everything stopped. "You coming in?" I asked, not at all sure I wanted it. He glanced up the hall and nodded, taking the key card from me and opening the electronic lock.

Once we were in the room, there was nothing to do. He put my key on the desk and sat on one of the beds. He said, "I'm sorry."

I bent my neck and looked at him sideways. "For what?" For acting like a stupid jock?

"That you were in there so long."

Oh. "Not even a week." 

He talked to his hands, which were clasped, his forearms resting on his thighs. The body armor sat next to him on the bed. "It killed me, knowing you were in there, and that I couldn't do anything. I wanted to take that building apart, and God damn it, if you ever do anything that stupid again—" He couldn't finish, and his knuckles showed white through the skin.

"You'll do what?" I asked behind a dragon smile. "Beat me?" 

That brought him up. "No! Jesus, Lars, how could you even say that after what you've been through?"

"You have no idea what I've been through." I did not want his kindness. I saw what had happened when I let nurse Jason be kind. I'd slipped right back into Yes, sir, and there was no way in hell I'd let that happen again. 

"I heard what you told the doctors in the ER, and for God's sake, it's your own God damned fault!"

"Keep your voice down, Agent Hoechst, or they're not going to buy the just good friends line."

Brian swallowed. "You knew. We agreed. You know I can't— You just covered for me back at the hospital."

I looked at him, wings dragging behind me, neck twisting down and turning my head.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," I lied.

He made a face, but came back to his damn hobby horse. "You shouldn't have gone in there alone, and you damn sure shouldn't have gone without telling me. When we were talking on the phone, you were on the road, weren't you?"

I shrugged. "What difference would it have made?"

"At least I'd have tried to talk you out of it." He snorted and turned away. "Then maybe none of it would have happened."

"Yeah, right," I said, laughing. "I can make my own decisions."

"Yeah," he sighed, "bad ones." Brian turned back to me, and stepped in close. He ran a hand up my flank, and gently around the back to the bruises. The tenderness irritated me like he was rubbing my scales the wrong way, and then he said, "I feel like this is my fault, like I should have been able to protect you from it."

I stepped back before he could try to turn the touch into something else, and let the fire come out under the words. "Either it's my own God damned fault, or I'm some kind of fucking damsel in distress who needs saving. Pick one."

"I just wish I could—"

"Make it all go away?" I asked. He nodded. I put the back of my hand to my forehead, raised the pitch of my voice and dropped into my long-fought Southern accent. "Oh, yes, my knight in shining armor." I sighed and dropped back to my normal voice. "Fuck that." 

"What is it with you?" I couldn't bear the expression on his face, wounded and confused.

"Get out," I said, because I could, without fear of punishment. I turned my back on him, because I could, without fear of a whip. I was being a bastard, but I wasn't afraid. 

I thought I heard him start to say something, and then came the noise of the door. He was gone.

I took another shower because I could, and fell asleep on my side with the TV on.


	47. Dragons are cruel

I woke up around 9:30, only to find I'd missed the free hotel breakfast. When I called Brian's room, he didn't answer, and when I went down to the front desk to ask for the nearest ATM, they said there was a note for me. It read, "Needed to go into the field office. I'll try to get your car released so you can head back."

I dressed in the last clean pair of boxer briefs from the package, the jeans Brian had bought me, and one of my new white T-shirts. When I looked in the mirror, I wasn't sure who I was. I tried on identities as I took the hike to a nearby bank, but I kept coming back to the big, nasty dragon. Suburban Atlanta isn't designed for walking, which annoyed me and fed the dragon. I had nothing but the clothes Brian bought for me, so I got stuff—razor, notebook, marker, that kind of thing—and went back to the bar and grill for an early lunch. The only good thing about lunch was being rude to the waitress. Back in the room, I shaved, and even tried jacking off out of boredom, but the usual fantasies wouldn't play, taken over by memories of what happened at Turner's. Shame wasn't exactly a turn-on. Eventually, I pulled out the placement to try to figure out what I'd been thinking, and a business card fell out of the shopping bag with it. It was the one the deputy had given me. Ah yes, the chance to get back at the bastards that trained me. I called the number.

"Jason Marks, DeKalb County Sheriff's Office."

"This is Lars Dahl, from the Turner case. You said to call so I could sign the report."

There was a short pause. "Can you come in, Mr. Dahl?"

"I don't have a car available."

There was another pause. "If you'll tell me where you are, I can bring it to you."

I told him the name of the hotel, and that I'd meet him in the lobby. I went down early and found they had coffee available. I took a cup, sat down at a table and tried to make sense of the chicken scratches on the placemat, tried to start again in the notebook, but the pages stayed blank. Part of me didn't care, and part of me didn't even want to try. It was a reminder, and I wanted no reminders. I wanted to know what I was going to do now.

Grad school seemed like something that came in and out of focus, not quite real. I wondered if maybe I should just keep the normal appearance that Turner had given me and get a normal job somewhere. 

That idea, of doing something normal, disappeared at the look in the Deputy's eyes. "Mr. Dahl?"

"Mr. Marks?" I said, looking at the grim line of his mouth. He had heard the whole narration, and the folder in his hand had his report on what I'd said. He held it like it might rub off on him, my weakness and my failure to stop what they did to me. I moved my mouth in a dragon's smile, hating him, and his badge, and that stupid deputy hat. "Something for me to sign?" I held up my hand for the folder, and he gave it to me. "Have a seat," I said.

"No need," he said, and stood at parade rest while I paged through his report. It was full of qualifiers—subject claims and alleges—but it contained the essential details. To piss him off, I took my time. Attached to the pages was Dr. Suarez's report and the results of the forensic examination, including a note that the chinos they took off me were brand new. 

I signed it and handed it back to him. He took it, looking at me only enough to locate my hand and make sure he didn't touch it. "Any more questions?" I asked from deep in my throat.

"I don't think so." His tone carried the sneer he wouldn't show on his face. It was all I could do to rein in the dragon, to keep my hands still on the table, and my wings furled behind me. This man was a tool I could use for revenge, even if he was now in the category of people I wanted to torch. I nodded, and he turned with near-military precision and left. I wanted to call him back, to ask how he thought he'd do with drugs, and whips, and who all knew what else they used. Instead, I drained my cold coffee and went back to the room to yell at Oprah.

At about 3:00, Brian knocked on the door.

I could feel the dragon returning at the sound of his knuckles, and I hadn't even been aware that it was gone. I let him in, feeling my body change. He had his mask in place, too. I said, "What can I do for you, Agent Hoechst?"

Brian shot me a look. "I'm not buying it."

"Buying what?"

"That you're okay."

"And why is that?" I asked—I growled—and cocked my head sideways.

"I saw—" he started, but I didn't say anything, so after a few seconds he tried again. "I saw some of the video they shot."

Here it comes. I wondered why he'd even bothered to come talk to me. "Did they get my good side?" I asked, pulling my head side to side.

He laughed, snorted, more like. "They didn't care much about your face, unless you were—" He stopped again.

I stopped moving my head. "Sucking something," I finished, and looked straight at him.

"God damn you!" he nearly yelled.

I shrugged. "Yeah, he probably did, long before you came along."

His face was flushed, and he snorted again, this time trying to keep control, but only barely succeeding. "You walked right into that. You're supposed to be so fucking smart, and you walked right into that. And I had to watch it, and listen to the other agents talk about how much it looked like you were into it, and try to explain that it was the drug, that if they'd never seen someone on it, they wouldn't be able to tell. And that led to questions, and I told them about Blue, but I couldn't tell them I knew exactly the difference between—" He stopped himself before he yelled something even more incriminating.

"Me on drugs, and me just being my normal slut self."

"What?"

I felt my face twist into cruelty. Dragons are cruel. "Oh, I don't know. If they'd asked me nicely I might have done it without the drugs."

He recoiled. "What is wrong with you?"

"You saw the movies. What do you think? Did they show you the one where they trained me? Any chance you can get me a copy, because, you know, I don't exactly know what they did to me."

He looked at me, and I watched his face shatter, muscles pulling his skin in directions it wasn't supposed to go. He dropped to sit on the bed, and buried his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice in pieces. "I'm so sorry."

I didn't want this. I wanted him to leave, to leave me alone. I walked over to the window, dragging heavy wings, and spat poison. "It was my own damn fault after all, wasn't it?"

There was a long moment while Brian pulled himself together behind me. I looked out at cars and at the roof of the restaurant. "I didn't realize how bad it was. I should never have said that to you." I shrugged, my wings flexing. I wondered if he could see them. I heard movement behind me. "It explains the way you're acting."

"How's that?" I asked, but I answered myself, Like a dragon.

He laughed once, and it was a bitter sound. "Like an asshole."

Same thing, I thought, but I said to the window, "What do you want from me?"

"Just the truth," he said, in a very soft voice. "You may have fooled the doctors, but you're not okay. You don't even _move_ like you. Fine, you're not scared and saying Yes, sir to everyone anymore, but you're not acting like you."

"And how do I act, _officer_?" I said, turning my head toward him, but not turning around. "Do you want me on my knees and silent? Or begging for cock like, what was it? Oh, yes, you wanted me to be a sex dog that night. How about lecturing on Machiavelli? Or getting a drunk frat boy out of my club with his ego intact so he doesn't bring friends later and really try to start something."

He shut his eyes. "Look," he said, "I can't understand what this is like for you."

"No, you can't." I turned to face him. I wanted him to stop trying to be kind.

"Shut up," he said, looking at me. "Let me—"

I didn't let him. "Fuck you."

"Too late," he said, standing up from the bed. He walked toward me, and held out his hands, palms up. "I'm already so fucked." I didn't say anything, but fire was forming in my throat. He was still angry, too, but he said, "I love you, and—"

"Yeah, I know." It should have meant something the first time he said it, but it was old news. "The doctor told me."

"What?"

"In the hospital, Dr. Tarbox. The one that thought you beat the crap out of me. She apologized and told me you loved me." I snorted. "Funny to hear it first from a shrink I just met."

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "I am sorry," he said, each word hanging on its own in the air.

"For what?

"For saying it was your own fault." He swallowed. "And, and for trying to—"

"What?"

He turned away, gestured with his arm like he was pushing something down. "I know. I can't—"

"Treat me like a girl. Like your princess Janine?" All that bone-deep Christian chivalry of his wasn't going to work here.

"What does it take to make it right? Tell me and I'll do it. My job, anything."

Dragons aren't stupid. Dragons don't take peace offerings at face value. The fire stayed ready. "It's more than your job at stake isn't it? If what we've done is out in the open, the chances of convicting Turner go down, don't they? What else was Tolliver worried about?"

"Forget Tolliver," Brian said, his voice rising again. "Are you listening to me? I'm not going anywhere. And, Jesus, isn't this about more than what we've done?"

I snorted smoke. "What else is there?"

He dropped his hands to his sides and balled them into fists, and I expected him to hit me. I opened my mouth again to goad him into it, but he turned away, saying, "Did you mean it when you told Tolliver you thought I had a brain?"

The question threw me, but I managed to hold onto sarcasm. "Did you think I'd tell him it was your dick I liked? I thought I was supposed to help you stay in the closet."

He turned back, his fists still balled. "If you mean it, Lars, then let me be the smart one this time. Let me help you. Stop acting like this."

"Like what?" I tried to fold my wings, and hold my head the right way.

"Everything about you isn't like you, down to the way you're standing."

"What do you know about what I'm like?" My voice was low, warning, but Brian didn't hear the threat, or chose not to. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

"You don't get sent out undercover unless you're very good at what you do, and you have to know people. You are different. Having seen what I've seen, yeah, I expect it to affect you. In the mean time, if you were telling Tolliver the truth, if I'm the only friend you have, stop it. You're smart. You did something to get over the whole afraid of men thing, but whatever you did is ugly."

For some reason, that word got to me. I dropped my neck to look at him from under my brows. "How do you mean?"

He walked up to me and reached for my face. I pulled back, but he didn't back down. I stood, stiff, as his fingers trailed down my cheek before he cupped my jaw in his hand. "You have always had your head high, proud and crazy, and take no shit. I've never seen you be cruel."

I looked at the ceiling. "Then you haven't been watching close enough. Ask Angie, or Blue." I couldn't pull away from the warmth of his hand, and he was touching skin, not scales. 

He shook his head. "You protected me with Tolliver. You didn't have to." He rubbed his thumb under my eye, and like at the hospital, I shivered under his touch. "I had some idea of what was happening to you in Turner's shop, and it drove me crazy. If I hadn't had Angie, had someone who knew, I wouldn't have been able to hold it in. I almost gave myself away at the hospital."

"I heard," I said. Things were happening inside me I didn't understand. I couldn't feel my wings anymore, and it scared me.

"I love you." He looked so honest, so sincere, so sans peur et sans raproche, like a proper knight in a fairy tale. I felt naked under his clear blue gaze, and I was afraid.

"Don't do this to me," I said, closing my eyes, trying not to shake.

"Let me help you," he said, trailing his hand down my shoulder, resting it on my left forearm. He picked it up and turned it over, the fingers of his other hand tracing all the places I used to write on myself. "Tell me how you managed to break the training they gave you."

"No." I tried to pull my arm away, but he didn't let go. He pulled, and I followed, and when he sat on the bed, I started to go to my knees. It was the only thing I knew to do. He shook his head, and patted the bed. I sat down next to him, and we didn't talk for a long time. I think he could feel how tense I was, and he was waiting for me to calm down. I didn't. 

Brian put his hand, palm up, on my knee, and I looked at it for a long minute before I stood up and walked away. "What's going on in your head?" he asked quietly. "I half expected to come in and find you covered in ink."

"I expected you not to come back." I didn't want to say it, but there it was.

"What?"

"I knew you wouldn't want me after you'd seen what they did."

"I read the transcript of your statement, too," Brian said. He looked past me and drew a breath, but didn't speak. He shook his head, and started again before swallowing and looking up from where he still sat on the bed, looking straight into my eyes . "You do not have nothing and no one. You have me."

His words went in like a sword, and it hurt in ways I'd never felt before. I was too vulnerable. I needed my armor, my scales, the dragon's teeth and fire. But I wasn't a dragon, and I couldn't lie to Brian. I looked at my feet and said, "They fucked with my head, and it still isn't right. I need to you to stop. I—"

"Do I need to check you back in to the hospital?"

"No," I said immediately. The next thing was harder to get out. "Just leave me alone." I wanted to be on my knees at his feet. Brian wouldn't drug me and I would obey because I wanted to, and it would be so easy to just give over to him, easier than to give in to Turner's trainers. I would not let myself do the easy thing. "I need you to leave." I needed the dragon, and I could not be the dragon when he was acting like this.

"I don't understand. I thought we were doing this, that this was not just a thing." His voice was dangerously calm.

"How's Blue?" I asked. If he wasn't going to leave, I was going to change the subject.

He leaned back on his hands, and looked at me for a long moment. "She's with her parents back up in North Carolina. I think they've got her in therapy. She's of age, and she almost refused to go with them, saying that she belonged with Shad. When she was told that Shad was in custody, and she could be jailed for violating Georgia's pornography statutes, she changed her tune. I think she's planning to testify against him."

I smiled. Some of her mercenary nature had remained intact after all. I took a seat in the room's armchair and stuck out my legs, trying to look casual. It didn't hurt too bad on the bruises if I leaned back at just the right angle. "How did you get me the marker? How much inside information did you have?"

"Some. We had a guy inside. He wasn't there in the field office with us when they were showing the video, and it would have been good if he had been. He could have backed me up on the Intensity effects. He saw what they did to you."

I sat up. "Who was on the inside?"

"I can't tell you that. He's still undercover." He had his cop mask on.

Some things that didn't fit suddenly fit. "Monkey. The biker."

Brian smiled like I'd just done a trick. "Yep. It was Angie's idea for him to get you a marker. Glad to see you used it."

"How'd you know I used it?" I started, and then answered myself, "You saw the exorcism movie." I didn't know how I felt. Monkey had helped Turner, and I remembered him buckling straps to keep me on the cross, helping Dave half-drag me from place to place. "He not only saw it, he helped. Where is he now?" 

Brian made a face I couldn't read. "It happens when you're undercover. You do things you would never dream of doing. Monkey's on loan from another case, where he's supposedly out on bail. We got him on this project because he had to lay low with the bikers for a while. It's funny, but the pending charges help his cover." 

I knew how I felt. I was pissed off, and that was good. I had to stand up to make room for my wings, feeling the wet noise of them unfolding again. "Can't blow his cover, now, can we?"

Brian nodded, and stood up, missing the sarcasm. I thought for a moment he was going to step toward me again, but he looked at my face and thought better of it. "Do you still trust me?" he asked.

I cocked my head and sneered, sarcastic, still. "Why wouldn't I? It only took you five fucking days to get me out of there. Were you waiting to make sure I'd be able to give enough evidence?"

Brian looked down. "Mrs. Cabot," he said. "She screwed things up. And there was a turf battle."

"Ricky's mom?" What the hell had that bitch done?

"She sent in an investigator of her own. It spooked Turner."

I thought that might explain why they fucked up my programming on the first round, the interruption in the standard script of mind control techniques, but then the other thing he said sunk in. "Turf battle?"

"Everybody wanted their own warrant, and everybody wanted to lead the raid. Then it looked like he was about to shut down and move after Mrs. Cabot almost screwed the pooch. It took a few days to sort out, but damn it, I tried! They finally agreed to a plan."

"Your plan? Do tell."

"Nothing to tell. I soothed egos and we merged procedures." His eyes narrowed. "What about you? Are you going to tell me what you did to get past all that yes, sir stuff?"

I sneered at him. "Drop it, Agent Hoechst. As long as I can keep it together to testify, and keep my mouth shut about what a good fuck you are, you shouldn't have any complaints."

He said nothing as he watched me, but his face was pale. I stood with my wings held close, my head tilted to look at him. He shook his head. "You're doing it again. It's like someone else is in your skin." 

"Get out." 

He turned away and took a breath. When he turned back, his mask was in place, and he said, "I got everything lined up to get your car out of impound. All you have to do is sign for it." He glanced at his watch. "They close at five, and we can make it if you're ready. Otherwise you'll have to wait until Monday."

"You could have fucking told me that first." I picked up the shopping bag and put the notebook and yesterday's underwear in it. My wallet and keys were on the TV. "I'm packed."

We didn't talk during the ride, and he stayed a careful six feet from me as I signed the paperwork, then followed as I found my car in the numbered space.

Brian stuck out his hand, and said, "Thanks for everything." I took his hand in dragon's talons and he swallowed, but gave me a manly shake. "Take it easy." He fished a card out of his wallet and passed it to me. "Call me if you need anything. I'll wait and see if the car starts." It started, and I backed out of the space, and didn't answer his lifted hand as I drove away.

The drive was hell, and it was almost impossible to sit in a way that didn't hurt. When I pulled up to my house, it had been a week and some hours since I'd left for Atlanta. I almost didn't recognize my the place. It wasn't even midnight, but I downed a Vicodin with two shots of Jack Daniels, and curled up on top of the futon in my clothes to go to sleep.


	48. Communion

On Saturday I listened to the phone messages from Professor Robinson and from Francine, and called back, knowing there'd be no one in the office. "I had a rough week, and I'll be out for the duration. Sorry," was all I said. The stack of junk mail almost hid a letter from Greya Windham, informing me that all paperwork had been filed, and the Plan 9 trust would be active in ninety days from the date of the letter, which was the middle of last week. "Big fucking deal," I said aloud.

I tried not to go out much, but being bored and cooped up in my house didn't help either. The branch library was in walking distance, so I went there on Monday for a couple of paperback mysteries. I brought them back on Tuesday and got three more. Wednesday morning I brought those back.

"Wow, fast reader," said the woman, who recognized me by now. She looked at the titles. "So do you guess who dun it?" She smiled in what she must have thought was a friendly and winning way, and I wanted to torch her.

"Yeah, by chapter five," I said. "I just skim them after that to see if the author followed their own set-ups." 

The librarian was determined. "Oh, sometimes they surprise you, throwing in bits at the end."

"Yeah, and by withholding facts until the end they undermine their own logic and break the contract with the reader."

"Then why do you read them if you know how they're going to end?"

"Good fucking question," I said, shoving the books at her hard enough for them to fall in her lap and walking back to the stacks for a large pile of Ian Fleming novels. I felt carpet shred under my talons as I walked back. "At least these aren't supposed to make sense. Going to ruin these for me before I ever get started, or are you done spreading your sunshine and the virtues of reading crap?"

She recoiled, and scanned the books with her lips held in a thin line. I should probably have cared, but I didn't. I hated her for no reason other than she seemed happy, and I smiled with dagger teeth at the thought of having ruined her day, but the victory was hollow. They had all been hollow, but if I let the anger slip even an instant around other people, my eyes dropped to the floor. It wasn't just men any more. I was scared of the world.

I made myself go to Plan 9 after leaving the library, and stood in the open doorway, staring at the empty space and smelling ancient beer until the alarm started beeping. I entered the code and walked into the office without turning on any of the lights in the main performance area. The desk seemed dusty already, the buttons of the phone almost sticky as I retrieved the voice mail. After listening to five messages from bands booked to play, I walked out, leaving the rest of the recorded voices to talk to the empty office. On the way home, I stopped for beer, a case of the cans Ricky had kept behind the sound board, and drank the first one with a sandwich. I drank four more before falling asleep in my clothes again on top of the futon with James Bond in my hand, and a half finished beer on the floor.

So went Thursday with beer, villains and easy women, except I made the mistake of answering the phone.

"Lars?"

"Professor Robinson. How nice." It wasn't nice at all.

"How are you?"

"Fine. Yourself?"

"Worried about you, which is a state to which I'm unavoidably accustomed. Frankly, I'm tired of it."

"So cut the cord," I said, stifling a burp.

"What? Lars, I've gone to bat for you, and it's going to cost me."

"How much?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dollars. Cents. How much is it costing you?"

"I mean political capital, and you're the last person I should have to explain that to."

I paused to take a sip. "So, use that modified version of the Arrow-Debreu economic model that takes contacts between traders into account and figure out a parallel to actual money. If I fuck up, I'll pay you back."

"Are you drunk?"

"What does that matter? It's not a half-bad idea."

"It's idiotic. I was warned, and damn it, I gave you the rope. You're hanging yourself, here."

I made a long choking noise and hung up the phone. I don't remember going to bed that night.

I woke up Friday around noon and kicked my way through empty cans to get to the kitchen. The place was a wreck, and I had enough of a hangover that the noise of the rolling aluminum was more than I could take. Bending over to clean it up was a punishment, but I made myself bag it all up and stack the books before making coffee. I knocked down some painkillers for the hangover and sat at the kitchen table eating bread and drinking coffee. Something had to give, because I couldn't live like this. It was time to shake things up, but I needed supplies. 

I waited until mid afternoon, until the shakes had stopped, to drive over to the student ghetto where Blue lived. I pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, Blue's roommate came and looked at me through the screen door, and I realized I'd never known her name. Too late to care now. "Can I help you?" She didn't recognize me. Few people had.

"It's Lars Dahl. Can I come in?"

"Good God, you've been sheared. What do you want?"

"I left something in Blue's room. I need to get it back. It's important." I was not going to let this stupid bitch stand in my way after I'd made up my mind.

"What—like you didn't miss it for a few weeks and now it's urgent?"

I reminded myself that I couldn't blast her, that I had to make nice. "Please, it's been a rough couple of weeks."

"Yeah, well you try having your housemate fall off the face of the Earth. Do you know where she is?'

I was tired, and I didn't want this fight. I'd been fighting since I got back into town, and the anger that fed the dragon was wearing me down. "She's with her parents, last I heard."

"When I called there looking for her a couple of weeks ago, they hadn't seen her."

"That's the last place I heard she was, as of a week ago." I tapped a clawed foot on the ground, impatient and trying not to show it.

"And you haven't called her, have you?"

I had called twice, and Blue's parents had hung up on me, but I wasn't telling her that. I cocked my head sideways, and gave my planned answer. "I doubt she'd want to hear from me. I also doubt she wants any reminders of me in her room, so if you'll just let me in, I'll get what's mine and you'll never have to look at me again." I looked into her eyes, and didn't blink.

"I'm coming with you." She stepped back and opened the door for me. As I walked in she asked, "Has she been with you?"

"We overlapped for a few days," I said, heading straight back to Blue's room and to the desk where I'd seen her search for the Intensity. 

"Wait, I thought you left a shirt or something? What are you doing?"

"Hmm," I said, and in the second drawer, in a Hello Kitty tin, I found the plastic bag. There were only three of the Apples left in it, and I slipped the bag into my pocket. "All done."

"What is it? What did you take?" The roommate tried to block me, but I brushed her aside. 

"Thanks," I said, sarcastic and dangerous.

She followed me to the door. "You are such a lowlife. You came in here and took her E?"

I stopped and looked at her. "How did you know what it was? I expected to find four."

She blushed. "I'd pay her back. It—While she was gone I—Well, Plan 9 is closed and I couldn't find any. And tell her to call me because she's past due on the rent this month."

"Aren't you a peach," I said, sneering and shaking my head, and walked out. I drove home wondering, now that I had it, if tonight would be the time to trip, or if I was ready. Maybe I needed to sleep on it, not be so tired at the beginning, do a day trip. In the end, I repeated the pattern of drinking too much and falling asleep in my clothes, with a book on my chest and part of a beer on the floor.

Saturday morning I drank a half gallon of water and the flat beer before making coffee. Breakfast was more bread. I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the bag, snorting to think that I'd literally slept on it. If I did this right, I could use the Ecstasy, structure the trip, and both get rid of the fear and get out of the dragon. After a week, I couldn't keep it up. If I got it wrong, well, there was always the family tradition.

I took a shower and shaved, and after a few minutes of staring at the razor, I shaved my head. It took a while, and I went through two sets of blades. I kept feeling patches I'd missed, and the towel afterward showed red dots from where I must have nicked myself. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't look like the thing Turner made. I was scraped bare to start over. I picked up the eyeliner, which I hadn't touched since I got back, got as far as uncapping it, and put it away again. I dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, then pulled a box out of my closet.

There was only one file I wanted among the old papers, note books, lecture material, and exams with high marks. It wasn't hard to find, and I opened it. It was full of pages cut from academic journals, and the top clipping was titled Herodotus in the Cube Farm, a review of my book that was favorable, but found faults I had to agree with. The next one was titled Lars Dahl's Immoderate Measures, a scathing rebuttal written by a social scientist who was bad at math, but had a point. There were five or six more, mostly positive. I retrieved my old galley proofs, and put the whole lot on the on the kitchen table.

Next I reached up to the top of my bookcase for the old occult stuff. I ran my fingers over the titles before pulling down the Book of Lies by Aliester Crowley and The Middle Pillar by Israel Regardie. I stared at the spine of Liber Chaos for a long time before deciding it had to be there, too. I carried the books into the kitchen to join the others, but collection didn't seem complete. I walked back to the bookshelf, and pulled down a King James Bible. Now it looked right, like all the parts of my life were there, professionally printed. I didn't intend to read any of it—it's hard to read on Ecstasy—but they were there as symbols. I tried to arrange them in order, but it still wasn't right.

It took a while to find it, but eventually I laid my hands on a paperback an old girlfriend had insisted I read, despite the fact that I hated fantasy. The whole thing revolved around dragons, and cover showed one curled around a person like a scaly, overprotective dog. When I put it on the table things seemed better, but still not done. Nothing else on the bookshelf called to me, so I walked into the bedroom. The box that used to hold my drug stash was next to the bed, and I opened it up. Brian's card was in it, along with the goat's head, stained dark with dried blood. My collar was in my T-shirt drawer, and I took that to place on the table, too. I found the notebook I'd bought down in Atlanta, grabbed a pen, and put those next to me as I sat down.

No. One thing more. I got up and found an extension cord in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Now I was ready. I looked at the three pills, cracked a can of beer, used it to swallow two of them.

 _Dear Brian_ , I wrote in the notebook, _I'm sorry. You're right, that I shouldn't have gone to Turner's without telling you, but you can't protect me. I'm not some teenager in your church youth group, so don't try to watch over me. You're not in loco parentis here._

I read over the first sentences and realized this was going to need editing. I turned to a new page.

_Dear Brian,_

_To answer your question, I'm not sure how it happened, but the only way I found to deal with the crap they did to my head was to turn into a dragon. Crazy, right? If I get analytical about it, I think it must have started from the pain in my shoulders, and a feeling like I had heavy wings. Things in my head went down hill from there. You said I was crazy before, and maybe I was, but I understood how and why, and I felt like I could turn it off. I was in the process of turning it off, going back to grad school._

_And then? I guess you know as well or better than I do, since you've seen the movie and I don't remember many details about what they did. One reason I can't face you is that I'm ashamed that they succeeded in taking me down._

I put the pen down and stood up, taking my beer and walking to the living room. This wasn't going to be easy, but running away from it wasn't going to be an option as the E kicked in. I went back to the kitchen table.

_I kept telling you on the phone to think for yourself, but I haven't had control of my thoughts since they got through with me. That's pretty much a textbook definition of insanity._

_So here's the irony: I turned into a dragon to survive, and you turned out to be a knight, trying to save me. What's the one thing a dragon fears? The knight in shining armor._

_I started this letter once, and started it with the words "I'm sorry." Did you know almost all suicide notes start with those words? Even my mother's. She did what she thought Jesus wanted her to do, but even then, she apologized for leaving us. Maybe I should, too. I can't live with what I am right now. I just took two hits of Ecstasy, and I don't know what I'm going to be at the other end of it. You probably know it was developed for psychotherapy. I'm using this trip to figure out if there's a way to remake myself, to fix what they did._

_I don't know how to sign this. Maybe I love you, too, but it's not enough. I can't live like this, and I'm going to have to fix my head, or just stop trying. I guess I'll sign this with "I'm sorry."_

I looked at the extension cord—brown, plastic, and utilitarian. It worked for Mom. It would work for me.

I picked up Brian's card. He'd written his cell phone number on the back, but I didn't know if I'd ever use it. It wasn't like he'd called me, either. I scrawled my full name on the bottom of the page, Lars Magnus Dahl, and took a sip from the beer. Lars the Great. I remembered how often Dad regretted that choice, telling me he wished he knew the Latin for Stupid Shit, so he could go change my name.

I could feel the edges of Ecstasy coming on, and thought I should probably put on some music or something. I loaded the CD player with trance and ambient and put it on shuffle, turning it up loud and stretching out on the floor, trying to figure out who the hell I was, or could be, or wanted to be, and was it worth even trying to get there? There was no going back to the guy who ran the door at Plan 9, and I wasn't sure there was a way back to the academic life after everything that had happened. A knock came through the music, but I ignored it. I wasn't up for company. The door opened anyway, and I sat up to find myself looking at Brian. He looked road-weary, wearing his chaps and leather jacket, holding his helmet. He also looked ready to turn around and get back on the bike, unsure of his welcome. He was wearing the rings on every other finger. I looked at his dusty boots.

"I couldn't get here sooner," he said, "and I didn't call because you wanted me to stay away. Hope this was long enough." I said nothing. "You shaved your head." I ignored him. "Look, if this is a bad time, I'll leave."

His timing couldn't have sucked more, but I got up and walked to the kitchen. He didn't follow, and I brought back the notebook and handed it to him. I lay back down on the floor with my eyes closed as he read the letter, and heard him snort once, angry, which I figured was the bit about me having just dropped two hits of E. I waited for him to storm out, but he turned off the music and said, "I asked you not to do that, to take any more drugs. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm already dead," I whispered. "Turner killed me."

"No, you're not dead, he just messed with you. Using drugs, by the way, so you take more?"

"My drugs. My choice." I glanced up at him, taking him in and shutting my eyes again. His face was flushed, his hands tightly gripping the edges of his helmet at the center of his chest, as if he might throw it at me. If he wanted to lecture me, I wasn't going to take it. My decision came as fast as I could speak, even if I couldn't look at him to say it. "Either trip with me, or leave."

"What?"

I sat up and tried to look in his face. "I'm not kidding." I couldn't keep it up, and dropped my eyes to the floor. "There's a very good Apple on the table in the kitchen. You can arrest me for it, or take it. Or get out."

"Don't do this to me," he said. "Please."

I looked up at him, and then it was on me, that feeling like my brain was starting to bubble up out of my skull, and I had to laugh because I wasn't scared, and I wasn't angry, and suddenly I could look at him. "Fish, or cut bait, man."

"What do you want me to do?" He looked confused, almost lost, and now it seemed he held his helmet like an anchor. I reached up with my hand, and he stepped forward after a moment and helped me to my feet. I ran my thumb over the rings, and then took the helmet from his hands, unzipped his jacket and put it on the chair by the door. It seemed heavy. He stood, so tense he was almost shaking as I took off his chaps. He helped with his boots, but it seemed more a matter of not being able to stand still and just let me do it. When I had him down to T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet, same as me, I led him to the kitchen.

I left him standing by the table, and watched him look over everything while I got a beer out of the refrigerator. I opened it and set it close to him, and then picked up the bag with the single pill. "Ever done this before?"

"No." His voice was quiet. "I don't do this stuff."

"Even undercover? Didn't you say something about doing things you'd never dreamed you'd do?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm usually a body builder wannabe, looking for illegal hormones or quick money, sometimes working as muscle. Straight edge, you know, because that shit messes with the training routine."

That explained why he was so ripped, but I said, "Think of this as a different kind of training."

He shook his head. "No. The last time I did—The last time we, you know—You were on it, and I was no better than them. I did what those bastards at Turner's did." He took a breath. "I held your head down and I fucked you like a dog."

"And the time before that?" I said. It was no good arguing that I'd wanted the violence from him.

"What?"

"The time before that I was on top, riding you because I wanted you in me. Because you felt good." I put my arm around his waist. "Come with me." I had no idea what I'd do if he refused. The bag was open, so I leaned it as if to pour out the pill, and waited. 

Time is funny on drugs, but I think we stood there for five minutes while he made up his mind, and then his hand came up under mine, palm up. I stared at the silver bands, thinking about the way they caught the light, and the things he was trying to say by wearing them. I dropped the pill into his hand, and he stared at it a long while.

He closed his fist around it, and gestured at the stuff I had on the table. "So, tell me about all this."

"No," I said. "Come with me, or go home."

He stepped away, so that I no longer had my arm around him. "What are you trying to do here?"

"No," I said again. "You read the letter. Come with me, or go home. And if you leave, don't come back." I knew what I was saying, and I knew there was a very good chance he wouldn't be able to do it. I also knew something else. If he left, it probably wasn't going to go well for me. I looked at the extension cord.

After a moment he spoke. "Most of this week, in the office, people have been watching the tapes. Everyone who has seen someone on Intensity has been asked to do an analysis. People I barely know have watched those bastards do you, watched you out of control, just reacting to what they did. I can't risk being like that."

I looked up at him. "The doer, or the done-to?"

"Either one."

I shrugged. I didn't buy it. "So we make a pact that we won't fuck." He shook his head, his knuckles white around the pill, rings digging in to his fingers. "It's not about sex, is it?" I asked, watching the light play off the silver.

He shook his head. "I can't—" he started, and then he went in another direction, struggling with the words. "You said you were tripping to try to, to remake yourself, figure out who you are. I don't—You have to do that yourself. I can't make those decisions for you. What if everything they did to you—What if you react by—What if you're straight?"

I couldn't help it. "You think if you fuck me while I'm tripping, you'll make me gay?" It wasn't fair of me to laugh, but it was funny. I stopped when I saw his face, the mask barely covering the hurt.

"I mean, I just—" He gestured with his clenched fist. "It's not just about sex. It's like you said in that first letter. I can't protect you, can't decide for you. I shouldn't be here for this."

"Listen to me," I said. "The whole dragon thing? The only way to keep my eyes off the floor was to be a dangerous, fire-breathing lizard in my head, to be bigger and meaner than anything they might be." It was only as I said it that I understood what had been happening. "I couldn't do it around you because I know you. You're so honest, so fucking good, that you strip all the extra crap off me. I never pretended to be anything with you, and you never asked me to change. You have no idea what that means to me." Shit, I thought. This was a full-on Ecstasy speech.

Brian broke in when I paused. "I'm not. I'm not good or honest. I've been living an acceptable lie most of my life. You've said it, and I can't."

I knew what he meant. "You're gay."

"I can't even say it. It means, I don't know, feathers and drag queens and—"

"No, it doesn't. It means you prefer men. That's not acceptable in small towns," I finished for him. "Or churches. Or with the federal agencies." He nodded. I had a moment of clarity. "It's not what will happen to me you're worried about, but what will happen to you. Wondering what you might be at the other end of it." He nodded. "If you can't risk being yourself," I said, "then put the pill down, drive back to Virginia, and beg Janine to take you back."

He shook his head, looking down at his clenched fist. "It's gone too far for that."

"Did you love Janine?" 

He shrugged. "I was planning to spend my life with her. I could have been content with that."

"Are you planning to spend your life with me?"

He raised his fist, not threatening, but gesturing, as if the pill he held was the key. "I can't—I can't make plans around you. I have no idea what you're going to do. I can't predict you. I have no idea how to even think about being with you, even if I could, because it can't be out in the open. I don't know how to do that."

"We'll figure it out," I said, reaching over and running my fingers over the rings on his fist. "You used to wear these at Plan 9 to tell me you weren't carrying a gun. You wanted me to know that you didn't want to hurt me." 

He nodded. "If I can't be open about you, proud of you, doesn't that hurt you?"

"We'll figure it out," I said again. "Come on." I turned his fist over, and pulled at the fingers to open them. "You took a risk when you came over that first night, wearing your old uniform." I picked up the pill and looked at him. He nodded. I'd been fighting the drug, and it was time to let myself go with it. "Up 'til then you stepped only on the beaten path, the known roads, the safe roads, under the streetlights. You were an agent of the law and a soldier of righteousness, doing what you should, but in the dark you got what you needed, and it scared the crap out of you. I was the agent of chaos, not afraid of the dark, and I don't trust the beaten paths." I held the pill to his lips. "Take communion, officer, or go back to your streetlight world."

I could feel his breath on my fingers, rapid pulses of warmth, of spirit. I looked only at the pill I held, pressed slightly into his lips. Suddenly his lips pulled back and he took the pill in his teeth, then shook his head back and swallowed it dry. 

I handed him his beer, and he took several long swallows, then a deep breath. "How long do I have?"

"About half an hour." 

"Good." He left the kitchen and I heard the sound of him rummaging in his jacket. He came back with a bag. "Come on," he said, and then led me to the bedroom. He dropped the bag on the bed and reached for the bottom of my shirt and started to pull it up.

I stepped back. "I thought we had a no-fucking rule."

He shook his head and reached over to the bed and dumped the contents of the bag on to the futon cover. There were surgical steel rings, lots of them, with closure balls and two pairs of needle nose pliers. "I had them show me how to put them in." 

I leaned down and ran my figures through the rings, spreading them out. There were no words for what I was feeling, so I straightened up and pulled off my shirt.

"Do you want them all back?" Brian asked. "I got two dozen. I know you've only got twenty-two piercings besides your tongue, but I wanted to have extra in case we lost any." I looked at him. "I counted them once," he said, "while you were asleep." He looked embarrassed. "We can do it all at once or in stages. They seemed to think stages would be easier on you."

I picked up a ring, put it in my mouth, and leaned in to kiss him. He didn't back away, but was hesitant at first. We passed the ring back and forth with tongue and teeth in our first kiss since the day I left for Atlanta. When the kiss was done, I took the ring from Brian's teeth with my fingers, lay down on the bed, and put it next to my nipple.

He was no expert, and it hurt at moments, but by the time he was done, I was getting hard. He rubbed down my stomach to my navel, and I shook my head, remembering how I'd thrown up when it was removed. No one would have that hold on me again. He trailed his fingers up, never breaking contact, until they smoothed over my eyebrow. I shook my head again, thinking that it would be easier in my future to have people listen to me rather than stare at my face and wonder if they hurt. We picked six in my ears—the two lowest ones on each side, then four more up my right ear in every third hole. The reflex was firmly in place, and I was very uncomfortable in my jeans as he worked, but we both ignored it.

When he was done, he reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet, then followed me to the bathroom. "Your back's turned green." 

"At least it doesn't hurt much," I said, twisting to look at it in the mirror to see the mottling of old bruises. Then I caught a glimpse of my ear, with five rings evenly spaced, and turned to face the mirror.

"What do you think?" Brian asked.

The shaved head was still strange, and I rubbed it. "I look like a different person."

"Isn't that the point?" he asked, sliding an arm around me. The question set off a whirl of thoughts in my head, and I couldn't look at this new self any more. I moved my eyes to his reflection, and I could tell he was looking at mine.

"What about you?" I asked, turning to pull off his shirt. "Lots of extra rings out there." He let me strip the T-shirt, and I put a finger on his nipple. "How about one for you?"

He put his head down and swallowed. "You're tripping on two hits of Ecstasy. Do you think that's a good idea?"

He didn't say no. "How about you do it, and I help?" I asked. This had leapt from an idle question to something very important to me, and I started looking in the cabinet for needles and alcohol. I'd done this before at parties, so I knew what to do. I brushed past Brian and got a bowl of ice. I put the bowl on the bedside table.

He came to the bed and lay down, arms spread like a sacrifice, eyes closed. This wasn't about me any more. I had my own work to do in the next few hours, true, but he was looking to me to help him through this, whatever it turned out to be. I iced his right nipple, since the badge went over the left, and he held himself still while I sterilized everything and did the piercing. It wasn't easy to work the ring through, since it had to stretch the hole, and I moved slowly, seeing what I was doing through the lens of the drug, finding meaning in every drop of blood, every groan he suppressed. When I finally closed the ring on the catch ball and sat back, he let go, and his chest started to heave with the labor of long-held breaths.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" He nodded. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said, a weird edge of both confusion and wonder in his voice. He opened his eyes and I could tell that he was tripping, his pupils wide. He reached up and touched my nipple ring. "Was it like this for you?" I nodded. "Is this always what it's like?" He looked afraid.

"The trip, or getting your nipple pierced?"

"All of it. It's all so big."

He was starting to shake, so I got him a glass of water. He drank it fast, and it seemed to help, but it wasn't enough. Brian needed to be put back in his body . "Come on," I said, and reached for the button of his jeans. 

He didn't stop me, be he looked at me, eyes wide. "I thought we agreed on not fucking."

"Trust me." I got his jeans off, and mine, and sat next to him with one hand in the center of his chest, the other free to touch him. It reminded me of the way he had spent time touching me that very first night. My fingers chased the afternoon light as it filtered through the leaves to play over his skin. I talked to him, told him who I thought he was, what I saw in him, and what I hoped for him—freedom from having to live by other people's expectations, other people's standards, and freedom to be happy, not just content. When I finished talking I let my hand move to his cock, and touching him there felt like breaking a barrier I didn't know I had. I stroked him hard, getting hard myself just watching his body react, watching him shift to give me better access, watching his face as he looked at me. 

He reached out for my nipple ring and drew me down for a kiss, and I shifted to lie on top of him so that my weight stayed off his new piercing, but with our hips aligned. It was something we had never done, and nothing they had made me do, nothing that involved any kind of penetration, and that seemed very important for some reason. We kissed and moved together, and it was perfect. When it was done, we coated as much of ourselves as we could in our mixed semen, laughing in a way that only made sense because of the drug. We showered like a baptism, and spent the rest of the night with words and music and silence. 

It was in the silence after the sun went down that he broke, first in a single sob and then with the tears of two decades of carrying shame for what he wanted, for what he was. It was dark in the house, and I kept it that way as I took care of him, helped him name his shattered pieces and try to fit them back together. When he came back to himself, Brian stood up and led me to the kitchen, picked up the extension cord, and put it back in the drawer. He was right. I didn't need it. If I could take care of him, then I would be able to take care of myself. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't over for either of us, but it was a start.

We eventually slept, naked and curled around each other.

I woke before Brian, and went out to get us donuts for breakfast. I placed my order like a normal person, not angry, not afraid, just hungry like anyone else on a Sunday morning.


	49. The End

I had just finished backing up my dissertation on a second flash drive when Angie walked in the front door. "Oh, you're here?"

I looked up from my laptop. "I pay rent here. How was Quantico today?"

Angie smiled. "It was fine. It's not like I expect to see you. I didn't see the bike. Brian on a case?"

"Pre-trial work in Atlanta, and they predicted rain. I took the Metro," I said, as Angie set down her briefcase and took off her coat. She hung it next to my leather jacket on the coat rack. I scrubbed my hand through my hair, and then ran my fingers through it to pull the spikes back into place. I had been carefully not thinking about Shadrach Turner's trial in the final push to finish my graduate work, but it was upon us, like it or not. For a while, I'd followed every twist as best I could, in part because it was a simultaneous trial with two juries, one federal and one state, with all charges presented at once. It was an unusual example of cooperation among agencies and prosecutors. I planned to interview them all once I was finally Dr. Dahl, and write a scholarly article about it. "Only took them two years," I said.

"We told you that was typical." She carried a paper bag holding a bottle of something into the kitchen and got herself a glass of water. "Want anything?"

I gestured with my beer. "All set."

She came back and sat down. "I have a date tonight. You want to come with us?"

I looked back at my laptop. "Third wheel? On a school night? I don't think so. If you want me to clear out, I can probably sleep at Brian's." I tried not to be there when he was out of town, but if she had a date, she'd probably want privacy.

"I want you to meet him," she said, her voice quiet. "His name is Brad, and we've been dating for a few months. I like him."

I looked up. "Serious?" She nodded. "Why not have him come over here for a drink first, then I can work in the library late, or something."

"Yes to the first part, no to the second. You live here. Sort of. If he has a problem with that, then he's not right for me."

"Some people might find it weird for you to have an unhealthy attachment to your dead husband's ex-business partner." That got her to throw a pillow at me. "Hey! Watch the computer."

"How's it going?"

"All I have to do is polish up the reference list. I set a defense date today."

"A what?"

"A day to defend my dissertation, you know, finish graduate school."

"Oh, yay for you!" she said. "Does Brian know?"

"He'd already left, and it's not the kind of thing I'm going to tell him by phone when he's around his coworkers. If they ask why he's happy, what's he going to say? My boyfriend is finally going to finish graduate school?" I took a swig of beer. "Not likely." She nodded. She knew the score. She and I had hung out more than a few times when Brian went to work parties by himself.

"When are you going down there?" she asked

"I don't know. I don't want to go until I know when I'm supposed to testify. I did enough back and forth for the rape trial and the grand jury part. What about you?"

"Monday. Why don't we drive down together?"

"I teach tomorrow morning, but I guess we can leave after that."

"Lars, it's a long drive, but it doesn't take three days. You don't want to do this, do you?"

"It'll be the first time I have to face him," I said. Turner had last seen me raw and stripped down, and he would look at me with eyes that expected me to break again. The dragon had come out in the first place at the thought of Turner, wanting to swoop down from the sky and tear him limb from limb, and it had come out again during the whole process of putting my trainers in jail. I'd needed it to hold my head up in the face of the public humiliation of having to testify about what they did. Brian helped me put it down, once it was over, but I didn't want to put either of us through that again.

After a minute I said, "You know, the one thing that surprised me in all that trial preparation was finding out that Brian designed the whole interagency team approach. He never told me."

"You didn't exactly want to talk about it," Angie said. "Besides, he's not the loudest guy in the room. Brian could have brought down Al Capone single-handed, and he wouldn't have said a word about it."

"Yeah, I know. It was almost an accident that I found out about his Master's in Forensic Psychology. I'm not sure he'll even let me interview him for the book."

"Wait, I haven't heard anything about a book."

"Back when all this started, I planned to use the case for my dissertation on inter-agency cooperation and competition. It's more interesting now, because the history of how the trial was structured is pretty unusual, too. There are a lot of parallels between the investigation and the trial that are fascinating, and I've been playing with the mathematical models in my spare time. There's an equilibrium process that seems to be common."

Angie shook her head. "Can you, maybe, not talk like that when Brad is here?"

"I'm a grad student finishing a doctorate. There is no one more single-minded, or boring." I didn't tell her that I knew I was using the intellect to not have to deal with the emotions. I raised my beer in a toast and drained the last few swallows. "Who is this Brad, and what does he do?"

"He's an art historian. He teaches at Catholic University, and writes about erotic art," she said, and blushed. "He'll be here in an hour. I'm going to get changed." Angie went upstairs to her room, and I decided to get another beer. No sense facing a high-brow, Christian porn critic when sober.

 

 

 

Five days later, I was in the lobby of the courthouse, drinking coffee and reading a journal article on my laptop, waiting for the second day of the trial to start, waiting for my turn to testify. I'd stayed in the hotel during opening arguments yesterday, preparing for my dissertation defense back at school. I hadn't been in a courthouse since the rape trial, and I'd had no desire to be present when the videos were shown. They hadn't wanted me there to distract the jury anyway. I was trying so hard to concentrate on the article that I didn't notice Turner come in with his entourage. I wouldn't have even looked up if I hadn't heard that baritone voice. "Mr. Dahl. I hear you're at George Washington University these days. I must say I'm surprised they accepted someone with your checkered past."

I could feel my jaw getting longer, fangs and wings. I clamped down. "We have instructions not to talk to each other, Shad." I looked back at the computer to dismiss him, but watched out of the corner of my eye as he swept by with his retinue. Madame X was not with him, still in jail I hoped, but Fowler was. The coffee had somehow turned sour, and I couldn't concentrate. I went to the door of the courtroom. Brian was already there, sitting with Angie, near Tolliver, Leslie and Jackson, the agents who had interviewed me at the hospital. Pretty soon they'd have to leave, since we couldn't see each other's testimony.

"Excuse me," said a familiar voice. I stepped aside and watched a big guy with a ponytail walk past me over to where Brian was sitting. He was wearing a suit, but it was Monkey, and I knew, I knew in my head that he had done what he had to do. Without him, I would have been stuck in Turner's porn and drug factory a lot longer, but in my gut, he was one of the people who had done it to me. Between Monkey, Turner and Fowler, too much was rushing back, and I turned back to the lobby before I felt the heavy dragon wings again.

"Lars? Oh, my God, Lars!" A dark-haired woman in a suit threw herself at me, and I stepped back to catch my balance. She looked up. "You look exactly the same."

"You look a little different, Blue," I said, putting my free arm around her for a stiff hug. It was the first time I'd seen her since Dave the bouncer had separated us before the raid. "How are you?"

She stepped back, looking a little hurt that I wasn't as excited to see her. We'd managed to miss each other during the whole preparation process with the prosecutors, and I may have done it on purpose. "It's so weird to hear that name," she said. "Everyone calls me Bette." Right. She'd never go by her real name, Bethany. "I'm okay. Life moves on, all of that. I got accepted to law school."

"Good for you," I said, insincere. Law would suit her, and with that mercenary streak, I figured she'd end up as a corporate litigator.

"What about you? All anyone knew was that you'd called that band—what was it?"'

"Rabid Ramirez," I said, surprised that I even remembered.

"Right. You called them and told them they could have anything in Plan 9 if they got it out in a week. And that was it. I went by your house, but it was empty."

"I went back to grad school up in DC. And you're here to testify?" She nodded and looked over her shoulder, and I saw an older couple watching us closely. "Your parents?" 

She nodded again. "I don't want them here, but they insisted." She glanced over again.

"You don't want them to know, do you?"

"They know, but not in detail."

"You better go warn them. It's going to get graphic in there. The whole jury has already seen you fuck." Her eyes widened, but I was edgy and my shoulders itched. The last time I'd seen Blue, she was trying to convince me to be happy with Turner. "You know this was coming. You got the same prep work I did. They showed some of the films during opening statements yesterday. Do you remember that the scene of you fucking yourself in the ass on my dick? The one where I was strapped to that cross? It's been on the Internet for years."

Blue paled further. "Oh, my God."

"Don't worry," I said. "I doubt anyone would recognize you now. It's not like you wear a platinum wig everyday, and they didn't focus on your face much. I mean, unless someone was using it. But who knows? With the trial publicity, I'm sure your name will get linked in there. Good thing you were already accepted to law school. At least everyone will know who you are on the first day. Saves introductions when they've already seen films of someone licking your ass." I knew what I was talking about. People had said things to me in that first year back in grad school that I didn't like to remember.

She swallowed, and then looked up at me. "God, you're still an asshole," she said. "And after all that we went through together, you never even got in touch with me."

"Talk to your parents about that. I called a couple of times, and was told to leave you alone. I wasn't hard to find, if you'd tried for even a minute. Type my name into a search engine some time." I looked past her. Her parents were whispering to each other, and I felt cruel—a dragon's cruelty. I wasn't sure she deserved it. "I'm sorry, Blue, Bette, whatever."

I walked past her and went to the men's room and splashed water on my face, and took stock in the mirror. On Brian's recommendation I was wearing a sport coat, and I'd gone with the full professorial tweed blazer in gray, with leather elbow patches, over a black T-shirt and slacks. I looked odd to myself, but Brian and Angie had both said they thought it looked good. No way in hell was I going to wear a tie with this hair. Looking at the hair helped, and the two rings I had left, one in each ear. I was tall and imposing on my own. I didn't need the damn dragon.

I shook it off, and went back into the lobby, found a seat near a power outlet, and plugged in my laptop, trying not to think about anything. Brian stood with a knot of other agents, including Angie. Blue was talking with someone I thought I should recognize, but couldn't place. When she looked at me, he did, too. It was Trey, probably nineteen or twenty now, and looking very different from the skinheaded kid I'd last seen at Plan 9. We nodded to each other, but that was it. 

I tried not to pay much attention to what was going on around me, and sometime after the afternoon break, I was called in to testify. Brian and I looked at each other across the lobby, and I gave him a nod, which he returned. It was the most we could do.

The prosecutor led me through the whole thing, just they way they'd rehearsed us. It was harder to do while facing Turner, who still had that stupid pompadour and white suit. I found myself crossing my arms, my fingers landing on the leather elbow patches, and I remembered that first interview in the group therapy room in the hospital in Atlanta. Dr. Tarbox had noted my academic manner, and I drew on it now as I described the scene of Ricky's murder, talked about the drugs, identified people in photographs and video clips, and answered all the questions. Fowler looked at his shoes when I described having to blow him, but Turner looked impassive through the whole thing, sometimes making a face as if to say that I was lying. When the prosecutor finished, the defense stepped up. It was the lead lawyer, a tall man with an accent as rich as Turner's. He seemed to be doing his best to imitate a made-for-TV attorney. "You say the defendant drugged you with Intensity. How did you know what the drug was?"

"I didn't say he drugged me. I said I was given the drug in a cup of coffee given to me by his receptionist."

"Ah. A man of details. Good. How did you know it was Intensity?"

"I'd taken it once before by my own choice," I said. 

"I see, and we've been told that the second phase makes the person seek sensation. Thrills. Pain even. When you took it by choice, how did you handle it? Was Agent Hoechst with you?"

I had no idea why he had asked the question, but the prosecution said, "Objection," before I could form an answer

"Sustained."

The attorney stood back. "You're admitting to illegal behavior under oath, Mr. Dahl."

"Would you prefer I lie? Perjure myself?" I had immunity, and they knew it.

"You're hardly the most reliable of characters, with a history of drug use and promiscuity."

"Objec—" 

I broke in. "What's your point?"

"Sustained." Said the judge, looking down her glasses at me. "The witness is instructed to answer questions, not ask them. Counsel is instructed to ask questions, not characterize the witness."

The lead defense attorney sat down and let someone junior take over, a woman in a red power suit with a helmet of hair. She tried to pick apart my testimony, but I stayed calm as I answered her questions and corrected her statements.

In the end she asked, "Mr. Dahl, do you enjoy sadomasochistic sex?"

"Objection."

"Sustained."

"All right. Mr. Dahl, is there any chance you might have participated of your own free will in the acts we've seen yesterday and today?" She smiled frostily. "You are under oath."

"If I were allowed a choice? Some of them, yes. Others, no. For everything that happened at Turner's, I was drugged and given no choice."

"With a drug you'd taken in the past by choice, by your own admission." I said nothing. "In the films we saw yesterday, you begged, Mr. Dahl." Again, I said nothing. "I hear you've changed your ways, but at the time, weren't you in the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle?" She sounded like a church lady, prim and disapproving.

"At the time."

"So wouldn't it be reasonable to think that you enjoyed making those movies? You looked like you enjoyed it."

I'd been through this at the rape trial. Instead of letting the dragon out, I stayed detached and academic, and said, "Considering that I didn't have a choice in the matter, and was drugged, I don't think it would be reasonable to think that at all." I looked the woman in the eyes and said, "It's like blaming a girl who likes short skirts for the fact that she got raped."

She looked at me as if she were about to say something else, but abruptly turned away. "No further questions, your honor." The lead defense attorney looked angry at her, but she shook her head and put the heel of her shoe on his toe as she sat down.

The judge looked grim. "Any further questions from the prosecution?"

"Just one question," said the lead prosecutor, without getting up. "Mr. Dahl, was Special Agent Hoechst aware that you had gone to see Mr. Turner in Atlanta in order to try to find Bethany Cunningham and bring her home?"

"No, he was not."

"If there are no further questions, you may step down, Mr. Dahl." As I walked back toward the door, I could feel people watching me. I didn't like to think about how much of me they'd seen, how they'd seen me beg. If I was cruel to Blue, maybe it was because she needed to be ready for this.

Angie walked up as I came into the lobby. I looked for Brian but he was called in next. We barely had time to share a glance. "How was it?" she asked.

I rubbed a hand down my face. With her question I realized how tired I was. "I need a beer."

"I'm slated next, after Brian, and that's it for the day. I'll take you out after that." She patted my arm. "Not your first choice, I know, but you'll be together again when this is over."

I sat back down with my laptop and worked on the outline for my next book, adding notes under the heading for the trial. Suddenly there was a noise in the courtroom, and the banging of a gavel. For the next few minutes there was a continuous low rumble, and then silence. Someone I didn't recognize, a dark-haired woman came out of the courtroom and punched a number on a cell phone.

"Skip? Get a camera team down to the federal courthouse now." The courtroom doors opened again, and two more people came out grabbing for their own phones. The woman next to me was still talking. "One of the DEA agents was sleeping with one of the other witnesses, one of the victims, and still is. And get this, it's two guys! Turner's lawyers are arguing that the victim isn't a victim, that he and the DEA agent set it up. Right, entrapment. The judge is bullshit that they didn't present it in opening arguments." She paused, and I tried to get my head around what I was hearing. "I know," she said, "but get this, the agent was the one who designed the whole investigation in the first place, so I think they're trying to discredit him. But the weird thing was it was like he led them to it, didn't even dodge the question. We've got to get these guys on camera."

She turned off her phone, and turned to go back in, then realized I was sitting there. "Oh!" she said, fumbling with her phone. "Would you like to make a statement about your relationship with Brian Hoechst of the DEA?" She held the phone out, using the camera to record me.

"Not at the moment," I blurted out. I was stunned, but she still stood there holding out the phone. I packed up my laptop and went to the men's room where she couldn't follow. Water on my face was not enough. What the hell had happened in there?

I waited, hoping the other reporters had gone back into the courtroom, and when I came out, there was only the knot of agents that had been there all day, moving from bench, to coffee shop, to standing. This time they were standing, and they looked at me. There was a sudden rumble in the courtroom, and people started to exit. Brian was among the first. Instead of moving to greet him, they way they'd done every other witness from their group, the knot of federal agents watched him walk over to me. 

He was keyed up, almost bouncing on his toes. I had no idea what to say to him. We'd been staying in separate hotels, staying away from each other, and there it was, on the record in open court and about to be on the news.

"Hi." He had a smile playing around his lips.

"Hi," I said. "I hear the cat's out of the bag."

"Yep. The judge called a recess until tomorrow, and the prosecutor is going to want to talk to us."

"How badly is this going to hurt the case?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. 

"You're going to lose your job, you know." I felt stupid focusing on the mundane problems. 

"You're graduating soon," he shrugged. "You can support me for a while."

"Brian, are you nuts? Have you completely lost your mind? I heard a reporter say you didn't even try to dodge."

"I've been thinking about this for two years," he said, suddenly serious. "I didn't plan this, but I'm glad it happened. This is public, and if they try to fire me, I'll have an anti-discrimination lawsuit filed before they know what hit them."

All I could do was look at him and shake my head. 

Angie walked up. "It's a zoo out there," she said. "The local media are out, along with CNN and Fox News. Someone tipped them off about you two, and rumors are flying. You're going to get nailed by microphones and cameras the minute you walk out."

Brian said, "I'm ready. Lars?" He held out his hand, and I wasn't ready, but I took it, still in complete shock. We walked across the lobby, close to the knot of agents, who looked up as we walked by, expressions ranging from blank to disgust. Monkey detached himself from the group and walked over. Brian's fingers squeezed me harder, and I couldn't read either of their faces. "Hi, Bill," Brian said, wary.

"Brian. Lars." The guy I knew as Monkey stuck his hands in his suit pockets, looking for a moment exactly like a biker in unfamiliar clothes. "Look, I had no idea. I should have guessed, maybe, from the way you were acting before we got him out of there." He glanced at me, briefly, then looked me in the face. "I'm sorry you went through all that." He looked sincere. "You seem like you're okay. I guess it's been enough time." 

I said, "I'm okay. I've had help." I squeezed Brian's hand. It felt so strange. We never held hands, even when we were alone.

Monkey nodded and looked at Brian. "About that," he said. "If they try to pretend they're firing you for having sex and not for being, you know, gay—well, I got three names for you. First one's Dan Sullivan, who's got a kid with the woman who turned state's evidence on that Oklahoma amphetamine case. They turned a blind eye to that one. Second one's Kit Findley—I think her name's Kathryn—who definitely fucked her way into a gang moving heroin into LA." He swallowed. "Third one's Bill Munroe." He looked at Brian, a little defiant, then glanced at me. "I owe you that. I got an old lady back in Arizona, up to her neck in the shit that's going on out there, and she's got no idea who I really am. I'm going to try to get her to roll, but—" He broke off. "Well, that's my problem, not yours."

Brian let go of my hand so he could extend his to Monkey, to Bill Monroe, who looked at it for a moment before pulling his own hand out of his pocket. "I never would have thought you played for the other team," he said as he shook Brian's hand.

"Wasn't exactly broadcasting," Brian said. "Thank you."

Monkey nodded and looked at me. He didn't extend his hand, but he looked me in the eye, nodded once and turned back to the other agents. 

Angie was waiting for us by the door, and we could see a crowd outside. "You ready for this?"

Brian nodded and put his hand out for me again. I took it, feeling like he was foolish and brave, my damn shining knight. We pushed through the door and the media bombarded us with questions.

"Is it true you two are together?"

"Turner's legal team is trying to use your secret gay relationship to defend their client. What do you have to say to that?"

There were others. I was all for pushing our way through without comment, but Brian stopped, and microphones appeared in front of his face. He took a breath. "Mr. Dahl and I have been in a relationship for the past two years, which we have kept private for our own reasons." More questions started, but Brian held up his hand. "It is not without precedent for undercover agents to fall in love with people involved in an investigation. If he were a young woman, you'd be writing about it with a romance angle."

"So how should we write it?"

"Same way. As a romance," Brian said, and cleared us a path through the crowd.

 

Three days later I had Brian's nipple ring in my mouth when his cell phone went off. We'd both been called back by the prosecution, and again as hostile witnesses for the defense, but we'd been brutally honest. The prosecutors had been annoyed with us, but on the other hand, it gave Brian's testimony weight, since he knew what I was like on and off the drug. Right now I was demonstrating my appreciation on his body. I could touch him in public, and for some reason, that made touching him in private even better. He seemed to feel the same way. Up till the moment the phone rang, we'd been working up our appetite for dinner.

I wanted to yank the ring out when he answered the phone. I threatened, teeth pulling, and he batted at my head until I let go, and then sat up, listening. After a moment he said, "Thanks," then laughed once and said, "I'll let him know." He set the phone aside and tangled his fingers in my hair. "Guilty, on all counts."

I wrapped my arm around his waist and buried my face in his chest. I didn't feel elated, just relieved, and something else I couldn't name. We didn't say anything for a few moments, and I got up and retrieved the bag Angie had dropped off earlier in the day. I fished out the lube she bought for me and tossed it down on the bed. "Two years," I said. "Long enough dry spell."

Brian picked it up. "Dry spell? You call the last two years a dry spell? Jesus, the only times I've had to jack off were when I was on a case, or you wanted to watch." I couldn't read him. The words were joking but the voice was flat, and he spoke to the Astroglide in his hand.

I sat next to him. "I've spent a lot of time the last few weeks looking at other people fuck me," I said, "talking about what they did, and answering questions about what they did. All I want to think about from here on out is what you do. Wipe it out for me. Write over it. Take it back."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy."

"No, it's not." I kept my voice light. "And I'm pretty sure it's going to hurt, but sometimes I like hurt. You haven't pulled my earrings once in two years, either."

"I don't want you on your knees."

I bumped his shoulder. "Oh, I don't know. It only took about three months before you let me blow you again."

He punched me in the arm with the hand holding the lube. "You know what I mean."

I put my hand on his leg. "I know, but maybe I want to be on my knees for you. The trial's over, I graduate next month, and this part of our life is done. Let's start over." I let the serious note hang for a moment, and leaned against him, dropped in the Louisiana accent to say in a high voice, "Besides, after two years, it'll be like I'm a virgin again."

Brian turned and tackled me back onto the pillows. "You, Lars Magnus, are impossible."

I rubbed his head. "No, I'm great. And I won't break, and I won't break down." Brian started to push back and sit up again, but I put my arms around him and pulled him down to me. "And you won't either."

"I don't know," he said to my collarbone. 

"I do," I whispered. "I'm going to have you so hot for me, so turned on, that all you're going to care about is how good it feels. How good we feel."

"You sound like a porn star," he said. I felt his lips on my chest as he spoke.

"I _am_ a porn star," I shot back, but it was the wrong thing to say, and I could feel him tense. I kissed his head, saying, "Forget it," and tossed the lube off the bed. He relaxed into making out, hands and mouths all we needed.

He didn't forget it, though, and the time was long past dinner when he pushed into me, and I was as ready as I could be for the fire and pain. I wasn't ready to feel him shake, like he was holding something back. He lay me down, and I felt him on every inch of the skin on my back. We held hands, fingers twined, and I flipped my ankles around his to hold him in place, finding the pleasure again. "Jesus," he said, voice breaking. "I'd forgotten how good this feels." 

I hadn't forgotten, but all I said, all I needed to say, was, "You."

I felt his hair brush my neck as he nodded. "You."


End file.
